Counting the Days
by illogical squeeks
Summary: Post AWE “Everyone you have sinned against...” Calypso let the list drop open, and Beckett watched as the roll hit the floor, covered in names. Oh dear. How on earth would he make all of those people happy? It was either that or the Locker... Complete!
1. Day of Death

ONE: DAY OF DEATH

Cutler Beckett had never wished to die with a... with a... well, a _kaboom_.

He had always felt that he should die after doing something heroic, lying on his deathbed, surrounded by his friends and comrades, saying famous last words as he slowly left the world. Now, _that_ was an ending! People often said things about _going out with a bang_, and Beckett could tell them now, that it was far, far overrated. There was nothing fun, nor exciting about going out with a bang.

And anyway, he had died more with a _kaboom_ then a _bang_. He was fairly definite on that... after all, it had been his death, and so he should know the sound it made. Really.

He felt that his death had been such a waste to the world. His great intellect had been stripped away from a land wide and shining with opportunity! And all because of that big _kaboom_. Shame. Such a shame. Coughing, he drifted out of his thoughts of the past, and decided that his attention was needed elsewhere... i.e., the present.

His rowing boat drifted through the black waters of the afterlife. He had never believed in life after death—and he felt that he shouldn't start now, simply because he was dead. So, if this wasn't real, he could make mistakes and nobody would really know or care. Not that a person like _him_ made mistakes, of course (apart from one particularly _kaboomy_ one, but he had to be forgiven for that, really, as it wasn't his fault at all).

Through the mist, he could see many other rowing boats, and underwater, shoals of people in what looked like nightshirts languidly drifted past. _I don't have a nightshirt_, Beckett thought idly, _I hope they have some here..._ blinking, he suddenly noticed a much larger ship come into sight. His boat—as well as all of the others—seemed drawn to it, like some magnetic attraction, and he ended up drifting alongside the _Flying Dutchman_. However, he couldn't move... which was rather annoying. He simply couldn't.

"Cutler _Beckett_?" Ah. The confused voice seemed to break whatever spell he was under; now that he had been noticed, his muscles suddenly untensed, and he found that he could move quite normally. He turned to the _Dutchman_, frowning.

"Am I... oh, it's you, Turner," his voice changed from one of questioning to distaste almost immediately. William Turner stood on deck, looking at him, and seeming—though as dashingly as he could—confused. This was not an unusual state to find him in, so Beckett wasn't unduly worried. _Is this hell?_ He wondered, _sailing alongside Will Turner for eternity?_

"You've caused a lot of... misery, Beckett," Will said, in his bold voice (he had a bold voice, and didn't feel it right to let it go to waste, so he said everything in his bold voice). He was probably pleased that he had managed a three-syllable word so early in the day. Beckett knew that he should keep the conversation up, in case Will became distracted by something shiny.

"I'm sure I have," Beckett said, "Do you mind if I ask where we're going? Purgatory? Reincarnation? Heaven, or perhaps hell? That sort of thing..." he trailed off as Will's face lost understanding. "You know what purgatory is, don't you?" Beckett asked, pronouncing the word slowly. Will immediately put on his brave face (which was the only one he had, apart from 'confused' and 'Elizabeth-face'). He held said face at what he thought was the most dashing angle.

"Yes, of course I know!" Will said.

"Hmm," Beckett said doubtfully. He, of course, had had the best of the best, educationwise. What was the point in being a lord if you couldn't stun everyone in the room with your superior wit and knowledge of all literature? That was, if everyone in the room actually knew what you were talking about.

Beckett was so intelligent, sometimes not even _he_ understood what he was talking about. And that was skilful, was it not?

"And you went to school, did you?" Beckett asked, and Will did not like the dubious undertones to his voice.

"Of course I did!" Will frowned at him, "I went to school 'til I was eleven... I still can't believe I passed my final test with above average..." he smiled fondly at the memory. His teacher had been so kind—always coming over to help him, and patting him on the leg for reassurance, and helping him change when he got his shorts dirty (which was a privilege, really, because he didn't think any of the _other_ boys got spare shorts if they dirtied theirs).

"Neither can I," Beckett muttered under his breath, and then he coughed, "So you don't know where we're going, at all?" Will nodded. "So where are we going?"

"No... that meant 'yes, I don't know where we're going at all'," Will said. Beckett stared at him for a minute. His thoughts were clear; _do you understand the notion of grammar?_ "You just have to sit along for the ride..." Will shook off his confusion, and pointed a condemning finger at Beckett, getting back into the swing of being bold and brave and dashing, "You will pay for your sins!"

"I'm sure I will," Beckett said boredly, adjusting his slightly singed frockcoat with as much dignity as he could muster (about one kilogram; which is about how much a baboon weighs. However, Beckett did not know about kilograms as his times were those of the imperial units, so he would have known it to be able two-point-two pounds).

"I wouldn't rattle me if I were you, Beckett," Will didn't like the casual tone Beckett spoke back to him in, "You wouldn't like me when I'm rattled!" His vocabulary wasn't too varied. Or his use of metaphors.

"Rattling? Try shaking your head from side to side," Beckett suggested. Will opened his mouth, and then closed it again, processing the information. Beckett realized that there was no point at all in trying to insult him; unless he perhaps came straight out with it and told him that his hair was stupid. That would probably earn him a girly slap around the face and the amount of exactly three-point-eight tantrums (each one going about seven stamps per minute).

Suddenly, a thought struck Will. Usually, this happened with a creak and a dull thud. However, this was a real-life thought... which was a rare event if there ever was one. On average, Will was struck by a thought once every four years and three months... but fortunately, this one had come five weeks early. He looked at Beckett, and then pointed a finger to somewhere behind him.

"You should be going that way. You're not coming to the land of life after death... you're going to hell. The Locker," Will said, triumphantly (which was four whole syllables... but Will didn't think of it). Suddenly, Beckett's boat veered off towards wherever Will had pointed.

"Can't we come to some sort of agreement on this?" Beckett asked, turning around to face Will, who was getting smaller every minute. It wasn't because of some strange growth deficiency, but because he was getting further and further away, and that was how perspectives worked. Tiny-Will waved until he was lost in the mists.

(He really got lost in the mists. His little conversation with Beckett had lost him what little bearings he had had on his location. Tch. First day on the job and all that.)

Beckett sat in thoughtful silence for another half an hour, until his little rowing boat bumped against a sandy white shore. He looked around—so _this_ was the Locker. It was completely deserted. _I would have thought Mercer would be here,_ he thought tiredly, standing up unsteadily in his boat.

"He is. But everyone has d'eir own punishment..." Beckett turned slowly, to face a strange-looking woman with thick dreadlocks, and an odd dress that appeared to be held together solely out of rags, pressed crabs and prayers. She smiled serenely.

"Hmm," Beckett said, examining her closely, "Calypso, I presume?"

"Indeed... just here to witness d'e punishment of certain people who have ruined d'e sea," she shot a rather pointed look in his direction. Beckett, naturally, looked behind him. Then he realized that there was nobody behind him—she meant _him_.

"Ruined the sea?" Beckett wrinkled his nose, "I was improving it, actually."

"Quiet," Calypso held up a finger, "I am trying to t'ink up an 'ell for _you_..." Images of no tea, pirates running amok and bad grammar filled Beckett's mind. He realized that he had to do something. He looked around himself.

"Is there anyway to... avoid this hell?" Beckett asked, cautiously. Calypso looked at him, seeming to be waiting for him to go on. "Something I can do to... to avoid hell. Redeeming the sins I have committed, that sort of thing?" _Be forgiving, be forgiving, be one of those forgiving deities that we're always hearing about..._

"D'ere is... but not a way d'at is possible for _you_," she gave an ink-stained smile, "No, not for you, of all people."

"I could do it," Beckett immediately said.

"Oh, really?" Calypso's smile was what Beckett imagined a vampire's smile to look like, "Redeeming the sins you have committed, eh? T'ink you can do it?"

"Yes," Beckett nodded, "Of course."

"Everyone you have ever sinned against—you can go back and make it better?" Beckett blinked at her. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Everyone you have ever sinned against..." Calypso reached into the folds of her dress, and brought out a thin, rolled-up piece of parchment. It looked quite, quite long. Beckett had a bad feeling about this.

"I can," he finally said, slowly.

"Everyone you have sinned against..." she let the parchment roll open, and Beckett watched in some level of distress as the roll hit the floor, still not even half-way unfurled. Beckett picked up the bottom of the long list, which was absolutely covered in names, and unrolled it further, his eyes scanning over some names that were semi-familiar, others that he could not remember for the life of him (ironic metaphor... sorry, chum).

"I could, ah, try," Beckett said.

"In five days?" Calypso folded her arms and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Five days?" Beckett yelped involuntarily. He looked at the list. "This piece of parchment is at least thirteen feet long!" He was correct... it was fourteen feet and three inches long (in case you're taking notes).

"So you don't t'ink you can do it?" Calypso asked, innocently, though her gaze pointedly swept around the Locker, as if searching for suitable punishment.

"Uh, well... what do I have to do?" Beckett asked, trying not to become tangled up in the long, long, long list of names that was his mission. Calypso chuckled, and Beckett frowned slightly.

"Go back to the land of the living, as but a ghost," she waved an arm, as if making a point (whatever the point was, she had certainly made it, that was clear), "And make things good."

"Make things good?" Beckett looked at the list, finding a name near the top, "Verna Price?" He asked, incredulously. He looked to Calypso. "I pulled her pigtails!"

"You did," Calypso nodded, "'Tis still a sin."

"I was _eight_!"

"Age does not matter," Calypso waved a finger, "A sin is a sin. Spite is a sin in my eyes." Beckett was staring at her as if she were crazy.

"So everyone who has ever sinned against _anyone_ goes to the Locker, eh?" Beckett shrugged, "The afterlife must be pretty empty." At least there would be no nosy, annoying neighbours, and nobody to hog the tea.

"Every bad t'ing, you can balance wi'd a good t'ing," Calypso explained, "For every good t'ing someone does, a bad t'ing is wiped away."

"I... see..." Beckett blinked, "So my list was... longer?"

"What have you ever done d'at's good?" Calypso scoffed. Beckett distinctly got the feeling of not liking her. Suddenly, she held out a small, see-through orb; it looked like it was made of glass. Beckett looked at it questioningly, and then took it from her hand to inspect it. "D'at is your conscience," Calypso said.

"It's empty," Beckett said, with more pride then you would expect from such a fact.

"D'e more good you do, the greener the inside becomes," Calypso held a finger up once more, "If you are bad... the green goes again. Once you have redeemed yourself against _everyone_, d'e inside will be bright green... and you can go to d'at afterlife d'at you are so keen to get to..." she smiled.

"What if the person I have to make happy is dead?" Beckett interjected, looking at a few names. He knew that quite a few of them were dead... after all, he had killed them (or had gotten Mercer to, at any rate).

"D'en you must balance it out wit' a good deed in general," Calypso snapped.

"I see," Beckett said, blankly, "So I go back to the land of the living as a ghost, and then I have five days to make everyone on this list..." he waved the massive list, which was now tangled around one of his arms and trailing on the floor, "...happy? That's impossible..."

"Only for a man who is as much of a sinner as you," Calypso narrowed her eyes.

"Oh, yes," Beckett straightened his wig in a dignified manner, "Well, I suppose I should make a start. But as for five days... well..." he pursed his lips, "You seem much fonder of the number ten. Why don't we bump the number up a little...?"

"You 'ave five days," Calypso snapped, "No more and no less. From sunrise of d'e first day, to sunset of d'e last. Understand?"

"I understand," Beckett said. He had a very bad feeling about this.

"Off you go, d'en," Calypso smiled at him again, her lion-staring-at-a-helpless-baby-gazelle smile. The list in Beckett's hand suddenly rolled up of its own accord, so that he had the rolled-up list in one hand and the orb in the other. "Good luck... you'll need it."

"Thank you," Beckett said weakly, before fading away.

And, somewhere in the land of the living, there was a green flash.

* * *

**NB: **Why do my fictions always turn out crazy? Well, here's another one folks, a nine-chapter series for the fun of it. I just wondered what Beckett would get up to as a ghost, is all... good? Bad? Ok? Must-have-been-out-of-my-mind-and-high-on-crack? I wonder...

**Diclaimer:**Do not own.


	2. Day of Learning

TWO: DAY OF LEARNING

Beckett breathed in the fresh sea air, sucking it into his lungs, feeling the first rays of sunlight on the back of his head... lightly. Amazing. He was back... he was back in the land of the living! Yes! He looked around himself, realizing that he was floating over the ocean, in the middle of god-knows where. He looked into the ocean. This was where he had died, he guessed.

He could see the waves undulating through his feet. His feet were translucent. He was a ghost... a real-life ghost. Well, real-life may not be the right word... he looked around him. A lone vessel lazily moved by, but apart from that, the sea was empty to all of the horizons.

_How long was I gone?_ It had felt like barely half an hour... but not a vessel was in sight. He turned to watch the sun rising slowly for a moment, before panic seized him. _I have five days to redeem myself to everyone on my list! Aaauuuugh!_

Impossible. It was completely, utterly and totally impossible. There was no chance whatsoever that he was going to accomplish this task. There were... _thousands_ of names. He was never going to do it on time. Sighing, he decided to try some transportation. He pedalled his legs on thin air, and went absolutely nowhere... much to his annoyance.

After a few minutes of attempting swimming, running, flapping his arms and other such things, he had still gotten nowhere. He felt annoyingly silly. _Go forwards!_ He thought in frustration, and suddenly, he propelled forwards... rather a lot. _So this is a mental sort of thing,_ he mused, looking around himself as he flew through the air, one finger on his chin, not a single body part moving as he swished, upright, over the ocean.

Another few minutes later, and he had mastered moving around... a little, in any case. He had to think about which direction he wanted to go in—but _not too hard_, or he would overshoot and end up flying several feet in the wrong direction. He swept around in a few circles, went up and down for a bit, and admitted to himself that—though tricky—this was actually great fun.

Now to stop wasting time. He looked towards the boat, and decided that he might as well get on there. It was called the _Truthful Liar_... he supposed that that was the shipbuilder trying to be clever. They really should leave that to the genii (plural for genius, of course), such as himself.

Soaring quickly to the ship, he landed down on the deck—or tried to, apart from the fact that his feet went right through it. He looked down. _Deck_, he thought, _you are there. I can feel you. Be there._ This seemed to work; as long as he thought about the deck, he could stand on it. He wandered over to a crate and sat through it. He then corrected himself, and sat _on_ it. Pursing his lips, he pulled out the list.

Unrolling it slightly, he looked at the names at the very top of the list—the very first people had had sinned against. Good times! Verna, the pigtail girl. Johnson Bradley; he'd given him a black eye, aged eight. And a girl called Fiona Wembley... so telling a seven-year-old that fairies didn't exist was a sin now? Psht! As he went through the list, he recalled several good memories.

_I need a quill,_ he thought, _to cross out all of the people who are dead._ He stood up, and walked through a wall, through a few rooms, and arrived proudly in the captain's cabin. He'd managed to walk! Great! He rolled his eyes, wondering how it was that he had ended up having to learn to move. It was quite a regression. Walking over to the desk, and carefully thinking about the quill, he picked it up, dipped it in an inkwell and tried to write on the parchment—with a splat, ink dropped onto the desk.

After various tries, it became clear that this ordinary ink would not do for the list. He tried to cross them out with his mind (it all sounds very 'use the force', doesn't it?) and with his finger, but nothing. Suddenly, a man walked into the cabin. Beckett assumed he was the captain, and stepped back.

The man suddenly began rifling through the drawers, muttering. Beckett realized that he was dressed much too raggedly to be the captain. Theft! A bad deed! He could correct it!

Jumping at the chance, he grabbed a hold of the drawer that the man was looking through and with a flick of a wrist, closed it hard, trapping the hand inside and making the man shout out in pain. Beckett picked up a paperweight—which the man stared at in horror—and aimed a shot at the thief-man. He dodged it, and ran to the door, where the (real) captain had appeared.

There was a minor scuffle between them, but Beckett was staring interestedly at the paperweight. A green spark drifted lazily from it, and suddenly shot towards him. Beckett blinked; eh? Was this it?

_That was a good deed!_ Beckett nodded, _I'm certain it was. So...?_ He held up the orb. In the very middle, a tiny grain of green had appeared. He grinned; yes! He looked at the list... a name had been crossed out. _Frederick Davison_. A man who Beckett knew was dead—but this 'good deed' had counter-balanced his sin against him! (which, in case you're interested, was when he had accidentally hit him with a dart. And then blamed it on someone else.)

Feeling somewhat hopeful at how easy his first grain of goodness had been to achieve, he shoved the list back into his pocket, and thought about what to do next. He supposed he should find Verna Price and apologise, or whatever he had to do.

_How do I get there? How on earth am I supposed to know where Verna is?_ Beckett thought to himself, massaging his temple... when suddenly, he felt everything around him changing. He glanced around, and realized that he was standing in the dining room of a rather lavishly decorated manor... and, sitting at the grand table, was a woman; the adult form of the girl. He barely recognized her—she looked fairly old, and somewhat gaunt. The years had not treated her kindly.

"Verna?" he asked. There was no response. He walked up to the table, and decided to take a seat opposite her, thinking about the seat all the while to prevent himself from going through it. "Verna!" he waved a hand in front of her face. She continued eating, her expression lifeless, unseeing. Though there was that usual hint of a haughty sneer on her face.

Beckett got the all-too familiar urge to grab a chunk of her hair and pull. Instead, he took a hold of the bowl of porridge and pulled it away from her. Verna's spoon stopped halfway to her mouth, and she stared at the bowl for a moment. Beckett looked from her gaze to the bowl, and moved it again. She seemed horrified. His annoyance gave way to amusement as he waved the bowl around in the air.

Verna uttered a small squeal, and leapt up, her chair falling with a clatter.

"It's me," Beckett said, though she didn't look at him, "It's Cutler Beckett. Look. Verna? _See me_." At his last words, Verna suddenly seemed to realize that he was there. She backed away from the table, staring at him. Beckett decided to remember the words 'see me'. "Verna," he said.

"Who... who're you?" Verna asked fearfully, as three servants rushed into the room, wondering what was the matter.

"Are you alright, miss?" a little cook's boy asked, bowing slightly. Verna continued to stare at Beckett.

"Only you can see me," Beckett said calmly, getting to his feet, "We need to talk. Do you mind?" He gestured out of the room, looking pointedly to the servants. Verna didn't move, just gawped at him. "Tell them you saw a rat! Come on," he pointed out of the door. There was a pause. Beckett rolled his eyes.

"I-i-it was a rat," Verna finally managed to stutter, "Excuse me," she quickly swept out of the room, Beckett following behind her happily. He was getting used to this! As soon as they were out of the room, Verna turned towards him, shaking, and spoke after taking a deep and shuddering breath, curling a light brown strand of hair between two fingers nervously. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice quivering.

"Don't you recognize me?" he smiled, "It's Cutler Beckett." Verna's breath appeared to catch in her throat, though she tried to hide it.

"But you're dead," she said, "You died, three days ago. They found your body. Are you..." She looked at his translucent body, and seemed to change her mind. "You're dead, aren't you? A ghost?"

"Yes. Thank you for reminding me," Beckett said, a touch acidly.

"What are you doing here?" Verna asked breathlessly, "I haven't seen you since boarding school!" Ah. The honourable institution for the training of young gentlemen and ladies that they had both attended. Some good times, he had had there. He'd lived there from the age of six to sixteen (sheltered childhood? Hardly... ever been to boarding school?).

"That's what brings me here," Beckett sighed, "I have to make you happy. To pay for what I did in school... which was to pull your hair," he rolled his eyes. He hadn't been very gentlemanly as a child—in fact, an absolutely spoiled brat would probably be a better description. Well, he knew better _now_, of course.

"Make me happy?" Verna asked, fearfully.

"Don't be so scared, I'm not going to _kill_ you," he folded his arms, "That's hardly going to help my chances of getting into heaven, is it?"

"That's what this is about?" Verna asked, blinking.

"Just tell me to do something that'll make you happy, if you please," Beckett waved an arm, "I have a lot of people to see to, and no time to waste." Verna pouted at him, but finally nodded a few times, regaining her old spirit rather suddenly.

"Well, you can help clean up, then," she said.

"Pardon?" Beckett blinked, thinking, _I must have just heard you wrong, because nobody in their right minds would ask me to do something like that and expect me t-._

"Help clean up the house. Do it."

"What is this? National 'Let's All Pick on Cutler' day?" Beckett shook his head, exasperated, "Is this your idea of revenge?"

"Yes," Verna said sharply, "Now do it before I get upset, because that makes you evil." He stared at her for a moment. Touché.

"Fine," he said, "I'm doing it, alright?"

And so, Beckett spent the next half-hour with an extremely dour expression on his face, half-heartedly throwing items into cupboards and pretending to scrub. Verna followed him around, seeming to be having the time of her life. At least the green sparklies were cashing in. After about that time Beckett decided that he had done about enough to cross her off of his list.

"Done," he said sourly, floating upwards so that he was towering above her, "You're a strange woman. You could have asked me to do _anything_," he said. Then he blinked, "But that's you off of my list. I still don't like you, by the way." Verna just smiled a satisfied smile.

He vanished from sight, leaving a fairly content Verna Price standing in her hallway. That had made her day. After a moment, she shrugged and walked back to breakfast, feeling strangely calm for someone who had just been visited by a ghost.

After this, Beckett picked a random spot on his list, and blinked as he tried to recall the name. Oh, _names_. It was that bunch of Christmas carol-singers that he'd slammed the door on last Christmas! Certainly, it had been evil, but it had been worth it—just for that fraction of a second that he saw their faces. Christmas was about the only time he enjoyed answering the door himself.

Beckett poofed from view, not yet knowing that his next task would strongly involve the word 'piggyback'.

* * *

**NB: **Thank you for reviews, all! And apolgies for the Will-bashing... I didn't see it as bashing at the time. It's to do with the storyline, really! Anyway... part two. Here it is. Constructive criticism welcomed! I feeled that this chapter may not have lived up to expectations, somehow. 


	3. Day of Fatherhood

THREE: DAY OF FATHERHOOD 

A few hours after that little incident, Beckett sat cross-legged on a hillside that he had zoomed to, looking at the little orb. His back hurt, faintly. There were some strands of green in there, twisting and turning. But nowhere near enough. He shook the little glass ball, annoyed, and watched the essence of goodness bounce and roll inside.

He had several names crossed off of his list—after a morning of slugging it out with muggers, throwing old ladies across roads and teleporting around to people he had sinned against and helping them with the washing up, he felt that he deserved a break. He had come to a realization though; the more emotional and deep his helping was, the more greenness he gained.

So. He had to do things _right_. He had to be caring and kind and thoughtful and... blah blah de blah. Wasn't this going to be fun? Pursing his lips, Beckett leaned his elbows on his knees and slipped the orb back into a pocket, pulling out the list. He'd decided to start at the top—and so far, quite a lot of the names had been crossed out, though that didn't make him any more of a good person, he supposed. And 'quite a lot' wasn't much in comparison to the hugeness of his list.

You see, the people at the top of the list hadn't really been that hard done by. He'd kicked their puppy or insulted them, but they weren't really that bad; so what he had to do to repay them was something small and stupid, like give their dog a bone (I beg your pardon?) or tidy their living room. He didn't even need them to see him—he just had to make their lives a little easier.

As a man who had spent his entire life being catered for by others, he was not finding this easy. Cleaning up after other people was not something that often crossed the mind of Cutler Beckett, and when it did, it was to tell someone else to do so. Clambering to his feet, Beckett straightened his wig (which—after the explosion, the journeying and constant hard work—was now almost permanently askew, and seemed reluctant to stay on his head) and closed his eyes.

He vanished from the hillside with a popping sound.

----------

"Tad Bowen? Have I ever wronged you?" Beckett asked. The adolescent in front of him just stared for a moment, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He'd just been going out into the garden to check on the chicken coops in the morning, and suddenly—there he had been. Cutler Beckett, slightly transparent, leaning on the edge of the coop easily.

"Y-yes," Tad said, trying to hold the stammer in. He failed.

"And... how did I wrong you?" Beckett asked.

"You—you killed my father," Tad said, slowly, "Jim Bowen. He worked for the Company. Remember him?" Beckett did not. But he pretended to.

"Oh, yes... him! Uh, yes, that wasn't really my fault," Beckett said.

"It was your fault. I saw you," Tad glared at him, "I saw you do it!" Beckett was surprised. So this was a man that he had _actually_ killed? Hmmph, he usually got Mercer to deal with that sort of thing. Suddenly remembering Mercer, Beckett wondered what _his_ sin list must look like. True, Beckett had given the orders... but Mercer had done the deed! Ha! He must've gone down by about seven hundred names thanks to Mercer... anyway, back to the matter at hand.

"Oh. Oh dear," Beckett said, trying to force some sympathy into his voice. Suddenly, he noticed a green spark wandering around his pocket. He snatched for it, but it went through his hand. He stared—and realized. He'd just lost a green spark. Desperately, he tried for niceness, and asked in a helpful voice, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Can you bring my father back?" Tad asked.

"No. No, sorry. I don't have the powers," Beckett waved an arm airily. His eye still on that green spark, which was on the verge of fading. Beckett chewed on a lip. _No! No, don't go! I didn't mean it! Please, just give me another chance! I wont do it again, I swear!_

"Oh," Tad looked down sullenly, "I was only seven when you killed my father, you know," he said, reproachfully. Guilt trips didn't work on Beckett; though he attempted to pull a face that looked like it cared.

"Well... I'll... I know," Beckett said, after thinking. He had had to get used to doing things that were nice, or romantic, or thoughtful, to gain extra green sparklies. He liked sparklies. Basically, he was beginning to grasp the idea of doing things with _soul_ (snerk). "I'll... take you to the beach?"

"What?" Tad asked, seeming confused.

"Isn't that what fathers do?" Beckett demanded. Tad blinked, and then nodded, slightly.

"Yes... my father used to take me to Pine Regis beach," Tad said, almost bashfully, "But why would I want _you_ to take me to the beach? You _killed_ him!" he folded his arms as he spoke. Beckett looked around himself. A next-door neighbour was finding Tad's conversation with thin air fairly interesting.

"Because... because I'm reformed, now," Beckett said, eyeing the green spark greedily; it was still there, but only just, "I'm a good person now. And I'm going to take you to the beach!" He grabbed Tad's arm, and then suddenly swooped upwards into the sky, dragging Tad behind him in a sweeping arc, upwards, shooting away over the horizon.

The neighbour dropped his trowel, astonished.

Tad Bowen had just twanged away into the sky...!

----------

"Please, d-don't do that again," Tad said, breathlessly, from the sand. He had collapsed to the beach, after being dragged through the air for twelve minutes at about fifty miles per hour (which, if my calculations are correct, meant that they had travelled about ten miles—distance equals speed over time! I think...).

"We're here, aren't we?" Beckett said cheerfully, waving his arms around him.

It was the morning, so the beach was somewhat miserable. There weren't many people there, but the sun would be strong soon, and it looked to be a rather nice day. Beckett put his hands on his hips, pleased with himself, as a single green spark lazily moved towards him, and then plopped into the crystal ball. Great! But only one? Looked like he had work to do.

"It was c-cold up there," Tad moaned, dragging himself to his feet at last, and looking around the beach. Beckett looked around, wondering how he was going to do a father-son excursion on super-speed with a boy who wasn't his son.

"Yes, yes," Beckett said vaguely, and then remembered his mission. He whooshed away, took a blanket from a washing line on a shoreside home, the Wembley house, ("I'll put it back!" he snapped to the crystal ball, which somehow managed to look disapproving) and shot back to Tad, wrapping it around him; quite tightly, so he was entombed in the blanket, but he gained a shot of sparklies for keeping the boy warm, so all was well. "What did your father used to do?"

"He took me out across the pier," Tad said, nodding his head towards it, as his arms were pinned to his side by the blanket, which was wrapped tightly around his entire body, save his head. Nodding quickly, Beckett grabbed his shoulder and yanked him towards the pier, flying them both over there in super-quick time.

"Walk, quick!" Beckett urged, pushing Tad in the small of his back and practically racing them both to the edge of the pier, pushing him along from behind. Despite the rushed manner things were proceeding, Beckett still gained sparklies, as Tad was having fun; he looked around, remembering everything—his father, his entire family...

Tad looked out at the horizon, his eyes shining. Beckett boredly looked around, and noticed the sun—the morning would be over soon. The sun was climbing ever higher. How to make this work?

"What did you do now?" Beckett asked.

"We'd usually get toffee apples," Tad said idly, "And talk ab-," Beckett had already grabbed him and pulled him along towards the toffee apple stand. The man behind it was bemused to see a boy wrapped up in a blanket standing there, blinking idly. Suddenly, a toffee apple rose into the air, was shoved into the boy's mouth, and then the boy was off, looking like he was being dragged backwards across the pier—he was doing at least thirty miles per hour.

Strange.

----------

Sure, Beckett lost a sparkly (that was his name for them now) for stealing a toffee apple, but for giving it to the boy, he gained about five. He pulled out his list, and looked at it. Yes! Names were being crossed out! Tad's name wasn't crossed out yet, though—he would have to up the goodness a little.

Tad, despite being dragged around a beach backwards at the speed of light doing things he used to do with his father, was having a great time. Beckett was _really trying_! Certainly, it was to save his own skin, but Tad didn't know that. Beckett pushed the wig straight on his head again, as they came to a standstill by the shoreline.

He looked at Beckett expectantly.

"Want to go for a paddle... son-for-the-hour?" Beckett asked, raising an eyebrow and feeling very ridiculous indeed. This whole thing _was_ ridiculous! Completely and utterly absurd! He was searching through his memories for fatherly things to say. So far, he had come up with, "Alright, but if you break your leg, don't come running to me!", "You're not going out wearing that!", "Aye, lad," and "We'll see..." which, of course, meant (and still means) 'no'. And he wasn't too sure where 'aye, lad' came from, either. Scottish dialect was just easy to link with fathers, for some reason.

Actually, his father had always said things along the lines of, "Yes, son," and "No, son," and "Later, son," and little else. Apart from maybe, "When you're older, son," which he was still saying even as Beckett reached the age of seventeen. Which _he_ had thought was a very grown-up age... at the time.

Tad struggled out of the blanket, and looked into the ocean, thinking. He hadn't had a day like this for a long time. He wondered if his mother had realized that he was missing—probably. Then, he looked at Beckett, who appeared to be stifling a yawn, though he quickly smiled when he looked. It was most probably a fake smile—Tad knew this. But at the same time... this was actually fun. Very fun indeed.

"Thanks for bringing me here," Tad said. More green sparklies shot from him towards Beckett, and then into the crystal ball. Beckett looked at it, smiling slightly; it was coming together. He had four and a half days left, and he was making good progress! Perhaps he'd be able to do it...

"That's... alright..." Beckett said, forcing the corners of his lips upwards, and looking slightly uncertain as to why he was there.

Tad smiled.

----------

"He really did just... fly off into the air!" the neighbour said in a thick Somerset lilt, shaking his head at his wife and scratching his head, "I don't know how to prove it... but he did! The Bowen boy just—he just—he..." the man sighed. His wife patted him on the arm, uncertainly.

"I think you need some rest, dear," she said, not unkindly.

Suddenly, they noticed a shape in the sky. They stared at it for a moment, as it became bigger, and clearer, and then landed in the garden next to them with a thump. Tad Bowen blinked, and then appeared to be pulled to his feet by some invisible force. He was wrapped tightly in a blanket that had stars and pixies embroidered on it. Suddenly, it was pulled off of him, and hung in mid-air.

"Thanks," Tad said, smiling, "It was great. Send my love to my father, will you?" Then he seemed to listen to thin air for a moment, nodding. Then he looked downwards. "For... my father... can I... I mean, can I have a hug?"

He looked at thin air for a moment, and then smiled slightly sheepishly, and wrapped his arms around something that wasn't there. He stood still for a moment, and then nodded, letting go. He looked a little bit teary. He shook his head, and smiled once more, wiping the corner of one eye with a finger.

"Sorry," he said, finally, "And... and good luck, eh?" Suddenly, green sparks shot from the boy's hands, moved towards the patch of air that he was talking to, and vanished.

The blanket suddenly shot away into the sky, as if it had been twanged up there by a very large catapult. The boy smiled and looked down to his feet, as his mother rushed outside, finally seeming to realize that he had arrived. She scolded him, and the two neighbours looked to each other, unaware of the day that a ghost gave a boy his father back for one day—one day that had been crammed into about an hour.

----------

"The boy had better not have had fleas," a voice muttered in the sky, unheard by anyone but a rather surprised gull.

* * *

**NB: **Pshaw! What a great father Beckett is, I think not. More random stuffs. Sorry if this chapter bored you... ah, Becky's still learning. The other canon characters will enter the story later on, don't worry... oh, and I wish all of you a merry christmas! 


	4. Day of Fairies

FOUR: DAY OF FAIRIES 

Just off the coast of Cuba, a sleek dolphin twisted through the water; before suddenly changing into a seal. It changed with such smoothness that it seemed to melt from one thing into the other—you would have thought that you must have blinked, that your view must have become obstructed in some way, because the dolphin and seal had no form in between, yet seemed to slide very naturally from one to the other.

The seal rose upwards through the ocean, the water cool around it; the feel of the wonderful sea, as she had not felt in such a long time. She felt everywhere. She felt nowhere. She was the sea... she was one with the sea.

Calypso arrived at a small beach, secluded, alone, which was just what she wanted. Once more, she turned into her human form—even though she had spent a long time trapped in this form, and as much as she loathed it, it was very useful; and knowing that she could slip out of this form at any time gave her a pleasing feeling, as if she had accomplished something.

In a small cave, there were some magical artefacts; her shack on the river had mysteriously fallen into the waters upon her release, and all of her magical items seemingly disappeared. But Calypso knew where they were—they were hidden. They were here.

She crafted magical items of her own free will, and had many that were ancient and very sought-after; this cave was a glittering trove of magical items, unable to be found by anyone but those she wished to. And right now, she walked to a saucer, which was full of ink. Ancient writings surrounded the edge of the dish, but she was not interested in them—she looked into the blackness, and tilted her head, her eyes watching intently.

Here, she watched in amusement, as Cutler Beckett struggled on valiantly with his task to cleanse his soul. Some parts made her chuckle out loud. Though it had seemed an impossible task, Beckett was sharp; and doing rather well. Calypso ran a finger over a heart-shaped locket that was against her chest, wondering whether to tilt the odds to make him fail or make him win. Being a goddess, she couldn't help but stick her nose in—it was what they did best.

Playing with mortals was fun. Playing with _im_mortals was all the better.

No, he had played a part in the destruction of Davy. The way he had treated Davy had been terrible... then again, Davy; her lover and her traitor, she wasn't sure on whose side to be on any more. Pursing her lips, she thought back to a certain Jack Sparrow. Beckett had certainly sinned against _him_.

Calypso smiled to herself once more, looking into the ink, seeing Cutler Beckett trying his best to do right. To be good. He didn't really mean it... Calypso knew that. And as long as he didn't really mean it, he would never, ever gain that final spark. He had to want to help, for more reason then to save himself. She could guess well enough that he was going to fail. Perhaps he didn't need her to interrupt.

Curious as to how this would turn out, Calypso decided to simply watch, and let fate take it's course... well. All right, perhaps she _would_ meddle. She just hoped that she wouldn't get carried away... meddling was just too fun for anyone's good.

----------

By evening, Beckett was quite sure that he had a fifth of the crystal full... as far as he could tell. He was getting the hang of this. He did nice things, he got sparklies, things got better. He knew that instead of doing the occasional slightly-good deed, he had to work hard on them—like with the Tad boy. Find someone who could really do with cheering up, go all-out on them, and watch the sparklies come cashing in!

Sitting cross-legged with the same star-and-pixie blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he opened up the list of names again, spreading it out over the ground. He had to crawl several paces in order to unwind it all. Putting his hands on his hips and sitting back, he sighed. A lot of names had a neat line through them—the ones that were dead, he had to do a 'good deed in general' and they would be crossed off if he repented enough. Right.

There were simply too many names to gauge whether he'd made enough progress or not. He knew that he had to carry on repenting into the night, and he didn't feel sleepy at all, which was good. Being a ghost wasn't too bad—like being alive, but much, much better. He had powers! He could fly and go through walls and other things that people read about in books, and thought, 'Man! I wish I could do that!' The only problem, he supposed, was that he was dead.

All right, he had to remember the seriousness of the situation. Standing up and brushing himself down, he picked up the blanket and the list, shoving the latter into his pocket and folding the first over one arm. Then, he took off into the sky.

Back to the beach, to return the blanket to the little shoreside home. He looked at the gate—_Wembley_ was gouged into it... the family name. Hence calling it the _Wembley Home_ in the previous chapter. Beckett wandered into the shrubby little back garden and threw the blanket over the line again. He noticed a woman standing there in the half-darkness, looking rather astonished. This has happened to him a lot just recently.

He recognized her though. He racked his mind (which sounds painful, but is, in fact, not), and realized something—she was near the top of his list. Fiona Wembley—fairy girl! He'd told her fairies didn't exist, and this, apparently, meant that he had to do something good in return.

For a moment, the usual thoughts bubbled up to his brain; cut the overgrown garden. Tidy things up. Bake a cake. Chores, basically—but then he had a better idea. An idea that was bound to get him sparklies, and perhaps even scrub a few more names off of his list! It was a devious idea; but for the forces of good this time, not evil. He would miss those evil days, but still... once he was in this so-called heaven, it would be all tickety-boo, would it not?

Deciding to use his idea, he shot off towards the town market square, thinking hard.

----------

After a while of searching, and some petty thefts later (he lost some sparklies, but he was quite sure that he would get them back when he did this good deed), he had in his possession some rather crude shining dust (glitter, it was called glitter) and several small models. He looked at them for a moment, and then nodded; this was perfect. This would work well.

It should, anyway.

Soaring through the air (and through several houses, one of which contained a room, which contained a rather attractive young woman preparing for bed. What?), Beckett finally arrived back at the Wembley household.

Fiona Wembley had caused quite a bit of scandal in her time. She went to the same boarding school as him, after all—she was an aristocrat, a noble, a _lady_. Her father had been an avid hunter, and his home was adorned with all manners of stuffed creatures. However, his greatest hobby had led to his downfall; his only daughter had fallen in love with the taxidermist, and eloped with him seven years ago (it's a funny old world).

Unknown to Beckett, said taxidermist had caught an illness one day—thought to be from that rather smelly brown bear head that had been consequently burned (hygiene wasn't too up to scratch in those days)—and died. Fiona had become a Wembley once more, as well as a widow, and she and her three children had been living a rather hard life ever since.

So, there's a little bit of background information for you.

Arriving back in the garden, Beckett put the tin of shiny sand (otherwise known as glitter) on the ground at the base of a tall tree that dominated one end of the garden—which was also where the washing line had been hung—and picked up the tiny, shiny and somethingelse-iny figures, dextrously tying each one to a thread. They were fairies! Time to put on a show!

He walked to the house and popped his head over the windowsill. Through the uneven glass, he could see three children playing some sort of nameless card game which involved a lot of shouting and snatching of cards (which is still played worldwide by kids to this day) and Fiona walked into the room.

Shrugging to himself, he rapped on the glass (his hand went through it the first time, and then he remembered to think properly). The four occupants of the room all seemed surprised, and then Fiona walked over to the window, looking out at the darkening garden. For a moment, nothing. Then she saw it—a fairy! She could have sworn that it was a fairly... a tiny little shape, flitting through the grass!

Quickly calling for her children to come to the window, they all stared in amazement as little shapes swung around through the overgrown grass, wings fluttering in the breeze, hair swishing. Obviously, if they'd have seen that there was a bored-looking man standing in the midst of it all, waving a bunch of figurines on strings around, things would have been rather ruined. But Beckett made sure that they wouldn't see him, and carried on swinging the fairies through the air with a few flicks of the wrist, whilst self-consciously glancing around... nobody could see him, but still. It was embarrassing.

The children immediately all became excited, but Fiona told them not to go outside, as they could scare the fairies away. Beckett watched with some interest as the four settled down and watched the fairies dancing in their garden. It would have been heart-warming, he supposed, if he'd had a heart to warm.

Beckett knew that he wasn't a very nice person—he was clever enough to realize something like this. However, he didn't care that he wasn't a very nice person; niceness never got anyone any money. You could become a professional 'Nicer' can you? Bleh. Still, he had to be _nice_ now. He felt like he was dying of _niceness_. It was a similar feeling to being drowned in sugarcoated treacle.

After a while of swinging the fairies about, he slowly let the various bits of string come to a rest, letting the fairies vanish into the grass. Covertly, he moved them through patches of grass until they were hidden at the back of the garden, and then pulled out the shimmering stuff—glitter, of course—and then wondered what he had been planning to do with it.

He had imagined sort of... vaguely... throwing it around. But now he realized that it would make no difference whatsoever, and would be a waste. Suddenly, he noticed the little terrors charging outside. He swooped upwards into the air—still feeling that rush of novelty from 'flying'—and then had an idea.

As the three kids ran amok, Beckett shrugged, and emptied the shiny sand (that is to say, glitter) on their heads—Fiona came outside, and they all started blathering about fairy dust. Oh, yes! For a few moments, the air was thick with sparklies, and Beckett grinned triumphantly, looking at the crystal ball, which was now looking like it was gaining a grudging sort of respect for him. Ha!

Perhaps if he managed to get his orb fully green before five days, he would have spare time to do just as he pleased! He imagined it—in his ghostly form, he could do _anything_... but not anything bad, of course. He frowned slightly; that took away a great deal of his plans. No, wait... that took away _all_ of his plans.

Damn it.

He looked at the kids throwing glitter around, and Fiona stood there with her arms folded, smiling slightly, perhaps thinking something along the lines of, _Hah, Cutler! Take that, you pig!_

Drifting downwards, wondering if there was any way to gain more sparklies from the experience, he allowed himself to become visible to Fiona Wembley. To her, it looked like he had simply appeared in front of her eyes. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, staring at him. She looked to her children, who were still rushing around the garden.

"Hello?" she asked, uncertainly. Beckett waved an arm in greeting.

"Fiona!" he said in a cheerful voice, "Good to see you again. It's me. Cutler Beckett. You know... Lord of the EIC. Amazingly intelligent. And attractive." He brought both of his hands upwards in a half-shrug, "Along those lines."

"It's definitely you," Fiona said, nodding slightly wearily, "But what are you doing here? If you're a ghost, why haunt _me_?"

"I'm not here to haunt you," Beckett said, trying to look wounded by her assumption, "I'm here to _help_ you. For sparklies." He held the crystal ball aloft. It was about the size of a cricket ball, and fit into the palm of his hand easily enough. Fiona blinked, probably not understand what he was talking about, but nodded slightly anyway.

"So... you're here to help me do what, exactly?" she asked, tilting her head.

"I don't know," Beckett sighed as if she were being a great annoyance by asking him these questions, "Things better then anything you could possibly imagine!"

"I can imagine a lot of things," Fiona said quietly; she was talking in a low voice because she didn't want the children to see her blabbering to thin air—it had become apparent that they couldn't see the strange, bewigged man.

"Well, I can do better," Beckett said, stubbornly.

"How long are you a ghost for? Until tomorrow?" Fiona asked, folding her arms. Beckett frowned.

"What? Why tomorrow?" he asked in reply. He knew that it was rude—and also seen as unknowledgeable—to answer a question with a question, but he felt that he needed to know more then Fiona did.

"Well, it's your funeral tomorrow," Fiona said, "I would have thought you'd know."

"My funeral?" Beckett blinked, and then brought out his list, looking down along the names—great! Practically everyone he knew would be there! And he had sinned against practically everyone he knew (even family members, tsk!), so he would be able to demolish a portion of his list! "How do you know?"

"It's all over the place," Fiona shrugged, "Newspapers, everything. You were quite famous, after all." He had been, in the vague, 'oh, he's what's-his-face from who's-that, isn't he?' way of soap opera actresses.

"Well, yes, I know," he finally sighed and shook his head, "I'd better go to my funeral, then, I suppose. Never a dull moment..." he looked at Fiona quizzically, "You're awfully calm about talking to a dead man who you haven't seen in years and years. Are you feeling alright?"

"I don't think I actually believe this is happening," Fiona said uncertainly, "Perhaps that's why?"

"Maybe," Beckett shrugged, "So, what can I do for you?"

"Huh," Fiona blinked at him, "I suppose you could drop a line to Benjamin. He's my ex-husband," she added, and then, just in case it wasn't clear, "He's dead."

"The taxidermist?"

"Yes."

There was a pause.

"Fine, alright, I will," Beckett said, waving an arm, and watching as a couple of sparklies drifted towards him, and into the orb. "Now, if you don't mind... I think I had better get ready for my funeral," he said, stoically, though in actual fact he was rather miserable. He was dead, after all.

* * *

**NB: **Tra-la-la, there's a familiar face next update... well, a few, actually... oh, and have a wonderful new year!


	5. Day of Mourning

FIVE: DAY OF MOURNING

Beckett, personally, would have hoped to see more people crying. It was only polite, after all. Sure, some of the women were mostly sniffing and dabbing at their eyes, but he saw no hysterics happening here. Oh well, at least the food was good—or looked good, in any case. He missed eating, strangely enough; he hadn't tasted anything in a while. Taste was important.

He looked around at the milling crowds. His body had never been found, so there was apparently no need to lower a coffin into the ground... he just got a stupid memorial plaque—the stinges! And it could at least have been gold-plated and encrusted with diamonds! Or rubies. They were nice.

Disappointed about his own funeral—which wasn't a very nice feeling—Beckett wondered what he could do to make it good around here. The only person who really looked like she needed cheering up was his mother... he supposed that it would be a good deed, to make her happier; but if her little heart gave out at seeing her son popping up at his own funeral very much alive, then he would be a murderer... which would not bode well with his current situation.

Eventually, everyone trouped into the church to be sad over tea and biccies, and Beckett noticed his mother being one of the last to enter, instead preferring to stare at the plaque for a moment. Beckett moved towards it to have a closer look—and then his mother turned around.

For a moment, Beckett was sure she had seen him—which was surprising, as he thought that he would only appear to those he wished to—but then she turned away again, somewhat warily, dabbing more tears away. Beckett breathed out, and then thought to himself, _see me._ Then he stepped towards the weeping woman, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Mother?"

----------

Calypso swirled through the ocean.

She took on many forms, switched from one to another, and made sure everything was as it was. Which they were; she was here now. She owned the sea. Just like it had been—and just like it should always have been. How she detested those who had tried to take it away from her. The Pirate Lords. Davy. Cutler Beckett...

Did he really deserve a shot at paradise? Calypso mulled this over as she flitted through the water, darting, the shape of a barracuda. The barracuda suddenly flipped, and in it's place a shoal of millions of tiny, glittering fish; each one translucent, tiny enough to be insignificant, yet perfect in their own special way. Beckett in paradise? Beckett, unpunished for his sins? No...

He didn't deserve it. The tiny fish suddenly all became one, and took on a different form; one that was much, much bigger.

Time to tip the odds...

----------

Once he had managed to prise his mother off of himself, Beckett had the daunting task of explaining the entire thing to his mother. She seemed half shocked, half relieved, and half overwhelmed to see him. It wasn't a pretty combination. And it also left some overspill. (Three halves in one person...?)

"I thought you were dead," she whispered, grabbing his hand once more. He sighed—it had taken five minutes to make her let go last time.

"I _am_ dead," he replied, "I'm just here for... a visit."

"A visit?" his mother looked at him, in his spectral form; she could see through him, literally. "But... what am I supposed to do? Didn't you have anything to say to me?" She wiped some tears from her eyes—they kept leaking out of their own accord, but she was strictly ignoring them. Her attention was needed elsewhere.

"Goodbye, I suppose," Beckett said, causing his mother to throw her arms around his neck again. He sighed. "What can I do to make it better?" he asked, as she buried her head in his ghostly shoulder.

"Make what better?" his mother asked, sniffing, "Your death?"

"I don't know—anything. What would make you happy?" Beckett asked, beginning the hopeless struggle to escape his mother's insanely strong grip once more. Gosh, did this lady work out, or what?

"If you'd stay," she said, and then blinked, "Are you even here? What if you don't exist?" she shook her head, "Am I going mad?"

"Oh, the last thing I need is my own mother doubting my existence," Beckett rolled his eyes, "Is my word enough proof that I'm here? Or perhaps I should get someone to sign on the fact, or swear it on a bible, a holy relic and the Mona Lisa? Make up a dance routine? That would probably work..."

"It's definitely you, Cutler," his mother sighed, finally easing her grip on him; he eagerly stepped away. Funny, that was the second time he'd heard that phrase used just recently. "What was death like?" she finally asked. Beckett appeared to think about this for a moment.

"It was quite boring, actually," he said, "It tasted strange... like chewing on a tin can." He shrugged at this point. "I expected more, to be honest."

"I see," his mother looked downwards, "Why did you never give the order to fire?" Beckett made a sound like a mouse being kicked, and then coughed it over. He looked at his mother, seriously, for a moment.

"It's rather daunting, knowing that you're going to die," he finally said, "And I didn't want to die desperately firing at two ships that were obviously going to overcome the _Endeavour_." His voice was somewhat sour—obviously, his own demise would be a little bit of a touchy subject for him.

"Sorry," his mother said quietly, and then looked at him, "Have you been there, then?"

"Been where?"

"Well. Heaven, I suppose," his mother shrugged one shoulder, looking downwards, "Not... the _other_ place, I hope," her tone was attempting lightness, but she looked at him, as if she knew every little secret.

"Why would I go to hell?" Beckett asked, forcing incredulousness into his voice, "I've spent my entire life helping people."

There was a tug on his conscience. He noticed a few green sparklies drifting from the orb; but when his mother gave a comforted smile, they wandered back into the crystal orb, and even increased in numbers. Sometimes, you had to get your priorities straight.

"I'm glad to hear that," she smiled, "You will tell your father hello from me, wont you?" Beckett rolled his eyes; it was so typical of his mother. She had the chance to speak to her dead husband through her only son's reincarnated ghost... and all she could think to say was 'hello'! But Beckett nodded anyway, as another couple of sparklies joined his crystal, unnoticed by him.

"I will tell him," Beckett looked across at the church doors—a couple of people had come out, to see where the mourning mother could be. "Mother, is there anything I can do to make you happy?" he asked, quickly.

"Are you going now?" she asked. Beckett looked towards the few people outside the church doors.

"I am," he said, "You might want to be quiet. Those people will think you're mad. Only you can see me, after all." His mother looked at him, directly into his eyes; he hated it when she did that. It made it harder to lie to her.

"Cutler," she said, putting a hand on his arm, "Please... I know that you don't like... can you just let me hug you? One last time?"

Hmm... what was it with people and hugs? First, he'd had to hug that possibly flea-ridden peasant boy, and now his mother had gone crazy about wrapping him up like a pita bread! He realized that these were 'bad' thoughts, and sparklies were going to begin dropping from his orb any second, so he stepped forwards and wrapped his arms around his mother's frail back.

She hugged him back—rather tightly, he may add—and even gave him a big kiss on the cheek. Both cheeks. Beckett pulled the usual face of a son being assaulted by his mother, but allowed her to do so dutifully. There was a flurry of sparklies from his mother, her gratitude easily visible.

"I'll miss you," she said quietly. Beckett looked at her.

"I'll miss you too, mum," he replied, seeming surprised that he was saying those very words. Letting go of him, tears in her eyes, they looked at each other for another moment—and then he swooped away, up into the sky, swinging in a lazy loop as he faded from view. She closed her eyes as there was a crunch of feet on gravel behind her, a concerned friend putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she asked her, worriedly.

"I'm fine," Beckett's mother smiled and turned to face her. She was fine. She'd said her final goodbye to her son—and that was more then most received.

----------

Jack Sparrow sat in a Tortugan bar, chatting to a couple of whores, grinning his easy grin, leaning back in his chair. The two were all nodding, eagerly listening to his tale, when their eyes moved behind him. Suddenly seeming somewhat nervous, they all scuttled off.

"Hey, where're you going?" Jack leaned forwards, looking after them, "I was just getting to the good p-,"

"Well, Jack," Giselle put her hands on her hips, and Jack swallowed and turned around. He could talk his way out of this one, right? Of course he could. "Enjoying the company around 'ere, are we?" Giselle had a loud and brash the voice, the sort that gets picked out in choirs with a general murmur of, 'What is she doing here?'

"Giselle, my sweet," he grinned broadly, "No hard feelings about the incident out on the docks, eh?" As she stepped forwards, he picked up some grimy charts from the next table and hid behind them, peeping his eyes over the top, as if shielding himself from her wrath.

"Did you really mean it?" Giselle asked, with a lip-wobble. Jack breathed out, and looked out at the midday sky through the murky windows.

"Of course I didn't, sweets," he said, opening his arms out, "I love you!"

"I meant about making me look fat," she replied haughtily, with a small frown. "You said that to _Scarlett_, remember?"

"Yes, but what I was sayin' was that I love you, and you do not, in fact, look fat at all... you took the words right out of me mouth!" Jack said, wagging a finger.

Beckett sat, invisible, on the seat next to him—and right now, he was rolling his eyes. The funeral had been annoying, though he'd managed to clear up a huge chunk of his list. He'd just generally skipped around the church unseen, tidying bits up and so on. And he'd looked down the list, and seen the next name...

_Jack Sparrow_. What joy.

"Ooh, Jack, you charmer," Giselle was saying, fluttering her eyelashes. Jack was grinning too—possibly in relief that he wasn't going to get smacked around that day. Or so he thought.

Beckett watched in some level of amusement as Scarlett entered their little miniature drama. _Oh, what an exciting life he leads,_ Beckett thought tiredly, gazing at the slap-fest that occurred next. Eventually, Giselle and Scarlett turned to each other, slapping each other for some apparent 'betrayal'. Jack took the opportunity to stealthily stagger away through the bar, until he arrived at another table near the back.

Deciding that this was as good a time as any, Beckett thought... _see me_. Then, still sitting on the seat next to Jack, he materialized out of thin air, and sat with his hands on the table, calmly. Jack looked at him, into his drink, and then back at Beckett.

"What's in this?" Jack asked out loud, inspecting the bottle of rum on the table. "Maybe I should stop drinking rum I find on the floor..." Beckett wrinkled his nose.

"This isn't a dream, or some inane hallucination," Beckett said tiredly.

"Oh, yes it is," Jack said, wagging a finger, "You can't fool me. You're dead, mate. I saw you go down. On the EIC flag—you sunk without a trace." He looked to Beckett knowingly, "Don't play like I'm stupid, or something!"

"Oh, God," Beckett muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah," Jack nodded as if it were final, and then took a sip of rum. "So you can just bugger off now. The last thing I need is a subconscious Beckett in me 'ead." Beckett stood up, walked through the table, turned to Jack, and then did a very ungentlemanly thing. He curled his hand into a fist, brought it back and punched him full-on in the face.

He had been wanting to do that for years.

As Jack's chair overturned and his legs stuck up into the air—possibly more in surprise then the actual blow—Beckett noticed about five sparklies plopping out of the crystal ball and floating away. When Jack sat up, Beckett was busy trying to snatch green stars from the air, and Jack could only stare.

"Alright, I believe you're here," Jack said, rubbing his nose. "But you have some explainin' to do! Are you 'ere to haunt me?"

"The opposite," Beckett said, finally sighing in disappointment and giving up as he watched the sparklies dance out of reach, "I have to wrong the sins I have committed against you and regain my conscience. So, your wish," Beckett sat back down, looking faintly horror-struck, "Is my command."

Jack stared at him for a moment. Then, his face broke into a wide, wolfish grin.

"Great," he said, "Go get me some more rum, will you?"

* * *

**NB: **Tee hee. What fun this will be. Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter, everyone! I was so happy! It really made me smile. See you next chapter...! 


	6. Day of Cheating

SIX: DAY OF CHEATING 

"Sparrow."

"What?"

"No."

"What do you mean, _no_?" Jack waved an arm, "What are you, too wimpy to hit someone in the face?" he paused, seeming lightly annoyed, "Well, you hit _me_."

"Jack, the objective of this entire task is to prove that I'm a good person and get sparklies... eh... a green conscience," Beckett pointed an accusing finger at Jack from his place, floating near the ceiling, "Making me smash somebody's head in is _not_ going to help my current situation!"

"Fine, fine," Jack waved an arm, "Spoilsport," he muttered, shooting a glance at Beckett to make sure he heard. "And you can get down from the ceiling too!" he smirked, "Suppose you wanted a turn at being the bigger one, eh?"

Glaring at him resentfully, Beckett allowed himself to drift downwards, though he didn't let his feet touch the floor; he floated about five inches above it, his arms folded, standing stoically. Jack rolled his eyes and made his way out of the bar, with Beckett floating along behind him; it caused an odd effect, because though Beckett himself moved through the air, he did not move his legs or arms.

"Where are you going?" Beckett asked. He loath to use the term, 'where are _we _going', as if he belonged to Jack, somehow. But he knew that he did—at least, until he managed to cross his name off of the list.

"I'm in search of certain valuable treasure," Jack said as they walked, "Priceless treasure, to be exact."

"If the treasure you're going after is priceless, what's the point in going after it?" Beckett asked, rolling his eyes. He wished that Jack would just tell him to do something relatively easy and let him go. So far, he had been forced to act as his personal assistant, waiter and general slave; and now he was being dragged on some sort of mission? No thanks.

"There ain't enough money in the world to pay for this treasure," Jack grinned, and Beckett had to admit to being curious about this treasure, despite the fact that there was no point in treasure for him now, "But I plan on keeping it meself."

"Hmm. And what do you want me to do?" Beckett asked, narrowing his eyes. "I don't have much time, you know, Jack. I'll stay for as long as it takes to get you crossed off of the list, and then I'm going." Beckett looked at the list. He was quite pleased about the fact that a lot of the names had been crossed off—in fact, most of them, now. And he was nearing the end of day two—which meant good progress! The little glass orb was glowing now, with many sparklies inside it.

Because a lot of the people he had sinned against had been dead—probably his own doing—he had only had to do a good deed in general to get them off of the list. This was a valuable shortcut; during his time helping others on his list, if he overextended on the goodness, he could demolish a dozen people from his list in one deed. He used this to his advantage.

"I require the help of a certain King Elizabeth Turner," Jack said with a smile, "Aqua de Vida has turned out to be a little bit more of a puzzler then I first anticipated," his slur of that final word was impressive in it's own way, "And I could do with more then a dinghy."

"Quite," Beckett said, still floating along behind Jack, "So she did get hitched in the end, hmm?"

"She did indeed," Jack said, as they tramped onto the docks. Nobody gave him a funny look for apparently talking to thin air—this was Tortuga, after all. "And may I proudly present to you... my vessel," Jack showed the dinghy off with a sweep of his hand. Beckett continued to float there, looking distinctly unimpressed.

"What ever happened to the magnificence of the _Black Pearl_?" Beckett asked, shaking his head, "Did my armada blow her to pieces?" he sounded hopeful. Jack snorted.

"Your precious armada did nothing," he said, grinning like a wolf, "We won. You failed. End of the game, mate." Beckett stood, digesting this in silence, as Jack hopped into the dinghy, and gestured for Beckett to join him. Beckett glided through the air, landing soundlessly on the small dinghy, and glanced around.

"Do you know where to find the newlywed Mrs. Turner?" he asked, sniffily.

"I know how to," Jack said, untying the rope and beginning to unfurl the sails, "You can use your ghostly powers, innit?" Beckett stared at him for a moment. Then he closed his eyes, seeming to be counting. Then he opened his eyes once more.

"Repeat that with the added privilege of having it _making sense_, please," Beckett said. Jack rolled his eyes.

"You teleported to find _me_. So go teleport to find _her_! And then come back here and tell me. Simple." Beckett shot Jack a look that said, _I hate you_, and then he vanished with a small popping sound.

----------

Calypso swirled through the ocean. Her body was bulky, strong, invisible in the darker waters. But she could sense something—she knew now. Beckett was on the ocean. He'd left the land. He was in _her_ domain now.

And in her domain, what she wanted, went.

Changing course, she began plummeting through the ocean at an unnatural speed, heading towards where she knew him to be. And he was in the presence of a certain Pirate Lord, too! She thought about tipping the odds. Her goal. Not to destroy anything, but to tip the odds.

Perhaps he would succeed. Perhaps he would fail. Calypso knew that she couldn't alter it—what happened, happened. But she could, perhaps, meddle; just a little.

----------

When Beckett returned with the bearing, looking rather irritated, Jack simply grinned to himself. Beckett could sulk all he liked—Jack was on his way! At least he seemed comforted by the green sparks that appeared around him; 'sparklies', as he called them. Jack wondered for that man's sanity, sometimes.

"Did they see you?" Jack asked Beckett as the dinghy sailed on.

"No," Beckett said. He'd gone to look at the charts and suchlike, and hadn't bothered showing himself to anyone—though he had spotted Elizabeth, being her usual bossy self. She was on his list, somewhere; for killing her father, he presumed.

"So—what's death like? I'm never going to reach it, but I'm curious all the same," Jack said, leaning back and resting his feet on the edge of the dinghy.

"It was quite boring, up to the point that I met the goddess Calypso and she reincarnated me as a ghost and consequently put me on an impossible mission to repent for my living sins after death," Beckett said. He was standing at one end of the dinghy, his hands behind his back, and Jack was lying at the other end—the stern end, for those who are interested.

"Huh. And that leads me to ask another question," Jack twirled his beaded beard around a finger idly, "Why didn't you give the order to fire?" Beckett clicked his tongue, but didn't reply. Jack grinned. "Couldn't bear to see any harm coming to me, eh?"

"Hardly!" Beckett replied, frowning, "I just-," he stopped mid-sentence, and looked into the water. "What _is_ that?" he asked, quietly, drifting to the edge of the boat. Jack looked down into the water too, and then sat up.

"It's a manatee," Jack grinned, leaning over the edge, "This one's huge!" he commented, and it was. This manatee was at least three and a half metres long; which was possible in a manatee, but fairly rare. Jack noticed Beckett shifting uncomfortably, and decided to have a little jibe. "Scared, are you?"

"I'm not scared," Beckett snapped, "Just... wary." He watched the manatee swirling through the sea beneath them, only just visible. "Something's not right with this manatee."

"Don't be stupid," Jack rolled his eyes, "Manatees are herbivores. Peace-loving creatures. Odd to find one so far out, but there you go."

"Jack," Beckett said slowly, "This manatee is _circling_ us. Like a _predator_." His eyes followed the giant beast, rising higher as it swirled around. Jack craned his neck to see it more closely.

"You _are_ scared, aren't you?" Jack looked up from the ocean and grinned at Beckett in glee, "Relax! I've always wanted to see a manatee..."

"What, from the inside?" Beckett retorted, "I don't like this manatee. It's huge, it's not where it should be, and it's circling us." Jack waved an arm, and Beckett scowled at him, "Jack, this isn't... natural..." he trailed off as the manatee rose still higher in the water, coming ever closer. Jack sat back and folded his arms.

"What do you want us to do, eh? Fly away?" Jack shrugged, "Manatees are harmless! They-,"

The manatee attacked.

----------

What happened, exactly, was rather confused. Neither Jack, nor Beckett got a full view of everything. They were each too busy with their own problems. As the manatee crashed out of the water, buckling the dinghy (and a fairly surprised Jack Sparrow) upwards, Jack made a dive for what he felt would be best for his safety... i.e., a bottle of rum.

Beckett, on the other hand, thought quickly. _If Jack dies, when I'm here, that would look bad. I could lose all of my sparklies. And also, I can't really repent to a dead man._ So he decided that the only thing he could do was save Jack, which he did, by dragging him up into the air by his arms. He gained a nice, healthy dose of sparklies for that one, but that didn't stop him scowling. Was Jack crossed off of his list now? He had better be.

Jack was still holding a bottle of rum in one hand. Beckett's grip was tight on his wrists, and he looked down at the upturned dinghy. The manatee was nowhere to be seen. But he was rather nervous that it was under the water somewhere, preparing to leap upwards very high.

"Ta, Cutler," Jack said with a grin up at the ghostly man who was still looking down at the dinghy, as if wondering how it had come to be upside down.

"I have three words for you," Beckett said flatly.

"Are they the 'I love you' ones?" Jack asked, smiling easily.

"No. They are the 'I told you' ones," Beckett glared at Jack for a moment, before saying forcibly, "_I told you_!"

"Oh, righ', so it's _my_ fault that a malformed manatee came out of nowhere and attacked our little dinghy, is it?" Jack asked, as Beckett began moving through the air, dragging Jack along with him.

"No. It's _your_ fault that you didn't listen to my warnings, and sat there gawping like a four-year-old as it attacked!" Beckett snapped.

"Oh, shut it," Jack rolled his eyes, and kicked his legs about in thin air, "And hold me a little more tightly, will you? I'm going to fall, and I feel like me arms are being yanked out."

"What do you want, a piggyback?"

"Maybe."

"I don't think I could hold you," Beckett said scornfully, as they continued to move across the ocean. Jack's innuend-o-meter gave a little ping at this point, but he ignored it. He tended to be like that, sometimes. Thinking the worst of things. (Innuend-o-meters should be a real thing. Honestly.)

"Beckett! You're going to pull me arms out! And what the hell will people think when they see a floating Jack Sparrow flying across the open ocean?" Jack demanded. Sighing, Beckett let go of Jack (who freefell for a second), grabbed him by the back of his jacket, and then grabbed him under the armpits (a place that he was certain no man should ever be forced to touch).

"Happier now?" Beckett asked, as Jack flailed beneath him.

"I suppose," Jack muttered, "But you could do with some hints on making people comfortable."

"I know perfectly well how to make people comfortable," Beckett said mutinously, "It just depends on whether I want to or not." Jack's innuend-o-meter gave another small ping. At least it wasn't ringing like an alarm bell. Beckett's chest was pushing lightly into his upper back as he struggled to carry the captain.

"At least I saved the rum," Jack said with a self-satisfied grin.

"Good for you," Beckett muttered, "I can't drink any more, which is really terrible... now, of all times, I could use a nice stiff one down my throat..."

Jack's innuend-o-meter exploded.

He looked up at Beckett, who didn't seem to notice anything was wrong. Was he pretending, or did he mean the double-entendre, or was Beckett simply a complete and utter idiot? Raising one eyebrow, Jack simply looked on ahead, and decided that a topic change would be best for now.

"Did you ever hear the one about the sailor, the carpenter and the priest walking into a bar?" he asked, brightly. Beckett pursed his lips, as if hoping that not responding would make the joke go away. It didn't work.

And, as they travelled over the ocean, an almost-half-bantering-friendship began to grow, and—though Beckett didn't notice—the crystal ball glowed ever greener for it.

* * *

**NB: **Yes. Innuendo. Every story needs some. Just perhaps not as blindingly obviously... here's chapter six, with three left to go! What, oh, what will happen next in our _exciting_ tale? Snerk! 


	7. Day of Storms

SEVEN: DAY OF STORMS

"There's the _Empress_!" Jack said at last; and he was really quite glad. Not only had the journey through the air become uncomfortable and cold, but his hair was now decidedly windswept. "Plonk me down there in a heroic manner, eh?" Jack asked Beckett, with a grin.

"Of course, Jack," Beckett said brightly, before literally throwing him on board, causing him to land face-first in a pile of ropes. Jack struggled to his feet, kicking ropes off of his legs, and glared at Beckett—before addressing the rather stunned Chinese pirates who had all stopped working, and were all blinking at him. As Jack talked with the pirates, Beckett looked out at the sun, which was rising—they'd been travelling all night, and now day three of his mission was dawning. The halfway line had been crossed.

"Jack?" King Elizabeth stepped out from her cabin, dressed in intricate Chinese garb, her arms folded, her back straight—looking as bossy and kinglike as possible. Jack grinned and swept a huge bow to the Pirate King.

"Hey there, Lizzie!" Jack grinned his usual easy grin at her, "I need your help. Do you mind if we discuss this in your cabin a moment?"

"I—certainly," Elizabeth nodded, "But may I ask how you got here?"

"All shall be explained," Jack said, beginning to steer her towards her cabin, "We must talk, my liege," Jack turned and beckoned to Beckett, before stepping into the cabin with Elizabeth, holding the door open for Beckett. Elizabeth was giving him a strange look, now.

"What's this about, Jack?" she asked, somewhat warily, as Jack closed the door behind Beckett. Jack gestured to the thin air where Beckett was.

"She can't see me, Jack," Beckett said in an amused tone.

"So show yourself to her!" Jack rolled his eyes. Elizabeth blinked, and looked around, as if wondering if he was talking to her. And then, suddenly—Beckett appeared in the air that Jack had been addressing. She had whipped a sword out in a matter of seconds.

"Very quick, Miss Swann," Beckett said with a faint smile, "Or should I say, Mrs Turner. You have no need to worry. I can't cause any physical harm to you."

"What're you doing here?" she asked in venomous tones, "And more importantly, what are you doing with Jack?" she turned her sword to Jack for a moment, who raised his hands, imploringly.

"Listen, Lizzie," Jack said, wagging a finger, "Beckett's in trouble. Allow him to explain." Elizabeth turned back to Beckett, and finally nodded.

"You have a minute," she hissed.

"And what, exactly, are you going to do if this takes more then a minute?" Beckett asked in an amused tone, "Kill me, perhaps?" Elizabeth swished the sword through the air where Beckett was—it had no effect whatsoever. He fiddled with a cuff. "Alright, I'm getting on with it," he sighed, as Elizabeth looked in despair at her sword, as if it had let her down.

After his long explanation, Elizabeth folded her arms and looked at him closely. She didn't look certain whether to believe him or not. She looked to Jack, and then decided that insanity couldn't possibly be infectious, so this must be real.

"So you have to do something to make me happy?" she asked, slowly. Beckett nodded.

"I've already done it for Jack, which brings me here," Beckett jerked his head towards the captain, shooting him a smirk, which worried Elizabeth slightly, and made Jack's broken innuend-o-meter make a small, chugging noise. "He's off of my list now. You, however, are still on there. So what can I do for you?"

"You could have had the good grace to _stay dead_," Elizabeth spat.

"Mrs Turner. I _am_ dead," he gestured to his ghostly body—referring to his transparentness, no doubt. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, distrustingly.

"Look, Lizzie," Jack shrugged, "Don't hold a grudge. Use him. He has ghostly powers and whatnot—he's a useful addition." Elizabeth glared at Beckett for another moment, and then nodded in agreement to Jack, sheathing her curved sword.

"First of all, apologize to me," she said, poisonously, "Apologize for killing my father." She folded her arms after this, waiting. Jack looked from Elizabeth to Beckett, and then shrugged. Beckett sighed—oh, how this was going to hurt his pride. Nevertheless, for once he had to put his ego second; then again, eternal happiness was probably only a _tad_ more important then self-esteem.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Turner," he said, beginning slowly; one green spark wandered lazily from Elizabeth, but he knew that he would have to up the dramatics if he wanted any more, "What I did was a cruel, selfish and overall evil thing. I'm regretting it now—I'm regretting every sin I've ever committed." As Elizabeth became more convinced of his apology, more green sparks wandered towards him, "I hope you'll forgive me for my crimes against you and your family. Dear."

There was a pause. Then, the bubble popped (figuratively).

"Alright, I'll accept that," Elizabeth said at last, and Beckett watched in delight as more sparklies shot towards him, filling up the orb even more. "Now, Jack, what did you want?"

"I'm after something else, now—something new," Jack grinned and pulled a rolled-up something from the inner lining of his outer jacket; Sao Feng's map. "Aqua de Vida. In the swamps of Florida. A way to live forever. And ever and ever and ever," he grinned and waved the map in Elizabeth's face, "Come with me."

"_What_?" Elizabeth stared at Jack as if he were mad.

"Aw, Lizzie," Jack put an arm around Elizabeth's shoulder as Beckett looked on derisively, and waved an am in front of her face, "Imagine it! You know that you're getting bored of doin' nothing! This is a time for some _real_ swashbuckling!"

"So you need a vessel, I'm guessing. Where's the _Pearl_?" Elizabeth sighed.

"Well, it was plundered away by that belligerent, ink-bellied, bestial oaf Barbossa; but this isn't about that!" Jack gave her a charming smile, slurring impressively, "This is because I think _you_ deserve the prize of immortality... and perhaps it's even a way to become one with your dear William."

"How would that work?" Beckett chipped in, disdainfully. Jack shot him an unappreciative look.

"Once you're immortal, going through worlds is a doddle!" Jack spread his arms out, "You can go here, there, everywhere. Once Will comes off duty, you can give him some of the stuff too. Together—forever! Imagine that. Or you can never break the curse he's under; you two can guide souls, together. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

"Jack," Elizabeth sighed and shook her head, "Once you become immortal, there's _no_ going back. You understand this, don't you?"

"Sure I do," Jack grinned.

"Alright... I'll think about helping you, but I wont drink any, thank you," Elizabeth sighed and waved an arm, "It would probably be simpler to help you get the _Pearl_ back, eh?"

"Could you?" Jack asked, smiling widely, "I was 'anging around Tortuga, that being the place Barbossa is most likely to 'ead to."

"Fine," Elizabeth snapped, "You can have your own cabin, too. I'll have it prepared," she sighed and shook her head. Beckett looked around.

"What about me?" he asked.

"What _about_ you?" Elizabeth snapped, before stalking out of the cabin. Beckett shot a dour look to Jack that said, '_women!_' and then trailed after her, following onto the deck.

"What can I do to make you happy?" Beckett pressed, "I don't have all day! I have a deadline, you know!"

"I can't think of anything right now," Elizabeth hissed, "Help out on board the vessel for a bit. Do whatever you want." Beckett folded his arms, annoyed.

"I don't have time to waste," he said, rebelliously. "I have joy and laughter to spread!" Elizabeth laughed scornfully.

"All you've ever spread is misery and death," she replied, though she seemed slightly amused, "Go and do some good deeds. Come back when you must. I'm sure that I'll think of something for you to do."

"You'd better," Beckett said, and then swooped away into the sky.

Shaking her head, Elizabeth made her way to the stern of the ship. Jack Sparrow popped his head around her cabin door, and watched Beckett vanishing from sight. Any normal man would have thought about how incredibly _strange_ this whole thing was. But he was wondering faintly if there was any way to keep Beckett, and his ghostly powers, forever. They would be a most wonderful asset...

----------

Beckett swirled through the air, a while later. A long while later. It was the nearing the end of the fourth day—time was running out. Yet, at the same time, so were the uncrossed names on his list. He was doing well. Drifting above a large city, he opened up the list and looked through all of the names. Repent, repent, and repent even more. He'd done nothing _but_ repent.

Ugh! Chores, reuniting, even matchmaking at one point. Stick two love-struck idiots in a room, watch them stammer out sappy words, and the sparklies literally come _flying_ towards you! He'd also discovered about profiting—he stole money from someone rich, and had a sparkly knocked off of his conscience. Then, he gave it to a beggar, and gained about ten sparklies! It was good going. And now... and now...

His list was almost complete. There were only about ten names left on it, out of thousands and thousands. He smiled to himself, feeling that he had done well. His orb was glowing a bright green now; but there were still speckles of dullness in there. He had to do more good.

Of the remaining names, only one was alive; that was Elizabeth. So. Nine generally good deeds, one deed for Elizabeth, and he would be fine! Unfortunately, he didn't notice the small curl in the bottom of the parchment; he didn't notice that he couldn't see the complete list. He was too busy celebrating his own genius as he whizzed through the air; closing his eyes, he decided to 'teleport' to the _Black Pearl_.

As arrived over the ocean, winds suddenly began picking up, pushing him backwards. He grabbed a hold of his wig and fought against the impossibly strong winds, wondering what on earth was happening. The wind had gone through him, before. Using all of his strength, he forced himself through the terrible gale, gusts making his spectral frockcoat flap and flutter, his cravat slipping from his waistcoat and into his face. He shoved it back into place, and fought against the wind ever harder.

Arms pinwheeling, he finally gave in to childish instinct and forgot the fact that ghostly movement was mental, thrashing around and kicking his legs out. With a scowl, he pointed his head downwards, put his hands over his head, and then bombed into the restless ocean.

----------

Calypso knew that Beckett was getting on with his quest.

Perhaps, if he really possessed the ability to spread so much happiness so quickly, he should be allowed into the afterlife. However, it also made it worse in a way—he always had the capacity to do good, but he never bothered, as he cared much more about money and power. Hmmph.

She wanted to throw a couple of obstacles into his path, that was all. Nothing too serious. Just a gale-force gust of wind or two—she was having fun. Even if he succeeded, adding to the difficulty of his task was something she was enjoying immensely. She was still in her manatee form; though this manatee certainly wasn't very natural. Huge, sharp-toothed, fast and fairly deadly. And just un-manatee-like in general.

As Beckett's ghostly form dived down into the waters, Calypso felt his presence. And she plummeted towards him. He may have been a ghost, yes—but she could certainly see him, and she could certainly _hurt_ him. Perhaps enough to put a stopper on his quest; or at least, make it harder.

He was finding this far too easy for her liking. Calypso always did like a bit of a _challenge_.

----------

The Company vessel was streaming towards them now, cannons loaded; as soon as the two vessels had recognized each other and their allegiances, the other vessel had immediately advanced. To take the Pirate King—dead or alive. The _Empress_ was the vessel that had been standing prominent at the head of the pirate fleet, after the _Pearl_ and _Dutchman_, of course.

Elizabeth shouted orders to her crew, walking along the middle deck, as Jack trotted behind her; trying to change her mind about going into battle. She was always a little hotheaded.

"Listen, love, the last thing we need right now is a battle," Jack shrugged, "The _Empress_ is a junk by Chinese design. One of the fastest types of ship in these waters," _Though not faster than the _Pearl_, of course,_ "It would be easy to get away." Elizabeth turned to face him, and Jack shrugged. "Run."

"I will not cower away from a vessel who feels the need to lord it over us on account of being legal," she spat, pointing a finger to the oncoming Company ship, "Now get to work! You're experienced in battle, are you not?"

"I'm the best there is," Jack grinned, and then seemed to realize his mistake. Elizabeth was already off across the deck, yelling more orders. "Mind the edge, Lizzie!" Jack called after her.

Advice that she would have done well to listen to.

----------

As soon as he was out of the winds, Beckett sighed in relief. For reasons unknown to him, the wind had affected him that time round—he wasn't too sure why, but it had, and he hadn't liked it. There was something supernatural about it. He tumbled through the ocean, and endless amount of space, still dry, yet surrounded by water. He could faintly feel its presence—but nothing more.

Seeing the black, barnacle-encrusted shape that was the hull of the _Pearl_ in the distance, he began making his way towards it, deciding to enter through the brig, rise to the captain's cabin, check the charts for where the vessel was heading, and then getting back to Elizabeth and Jack on the _Empress_ and telling them which way to head. Hopefully, that would count as a good deed.

Then, he saw something that made his blood freeze in pure and complete terror.

There was just something about that manatee... he was certain it was the same one. It came plummeting up from the depths, and Beckett waited for it to pass through him—but it didn't.

It went into him, winding him, sending them both spinning through the black waters.

* * *

**NB: **Gah. I can't live without putting some action into my stories... bleh! Nothing I write can ever just be a simple piece of drama, eh? 

Anyhow! Sorry for the reeeaally slow updates and so on. Exams are now beginning the gradual process of taking over my whole entire life. So, I've put in some more OCs and some good, old-fashioned Calypsoey goodness. We're on chapter seven of nine!


	8. Day of Terror

EIGHT: DAY OF TERROR 

The boom of cannons simply added to the confusion and madness of a sea battle. The _Empress_ and the _Fortune_—which is the name of the Company ship that was attacking—both slid through the water, circling around, going past each other, cannons firing everywhere. Elizabeth's crew rushed around, loading cannons, fixing damage, each with their own tasks in mind, as well as the mission to stay alive.

Jack was trying to keep out of it, creeping around the ship as surreptitiously as possible. This seemed to work. The booms and crashes and crackles and shouts echoed all around him, and Jack wondered if perhaps ghost-Beckett would like to hurry back and help them all.

Or maybe not. If Beckett were to go and knife their captain, he would be committing murder—which was a sin, after all. And Beckett had been very, very devoted to the East India Trading Company; attacking one of its vessels would quite possibly be completely out of the question. Jack was thinking about all of the things Elizabeth could ask of Beckett—some of them were smashing his already broken innuend-o-meter rather badly.

Filthy thoughts for filthy minds, or so it seems to work.

The _Fortune_ moved towards them once more, and as they got ready for another assault from the starboard side, Jack hopped around the foremast. Elizabeth was right out in the fray, giving loud orders as usual. Jack had to admire her bossiness—she was real captain material, right there.

Elizabeth was in the heat of battle, and in the heat of battle, you forgot all else. People became just that—people. Simply people. She didn't know them; if they died, you had to remove them so that they weren't in the way. No lives had been lost yet, as far as she could tell. The _Fortune_ was ruthless in its attack; obviously determined to bring the smaller vessel down. However, junks were a very ingenious style of ship—the oriental deign of the ribbed sails meant that they had much more flexibility in the water.

Putting one foot onto the splintered banister at the edge of the _Empress_, she shouted out the order to fire, which carried right down to the belly of their ship—right down to the brigs, joined by the many voices of her own crew. Cannons swept forwards, backwards, skirting past each other in a gruesome ballet; and the force of the hit rocked the _Empress_, sending her keeling to one side steeply.

----------

Tearing himself off of the oncoming manatee, Beckett swirled through the water, staring in complete horror at the thing, which had turned at a sharp angle and was beginning to circle once more. He looked upwards—the surface was a long way away, as the beast had pulled him downwards.

"Calypso?" Beckett tried, ignoring the pain in his chest as much as he could; he hadn't really known that he had had to breathe, but it seemed that he had to take in _something_—he was finding it hard to suck non-existent air into his lungs. And it was odd how he could feel pain. He hadn't, really, felt it in ghost-form before. It was... strange.

There was no reply from the monstrous manatee; it simply faded in and out of sight, reflections and refractions of the light going through the water shimmering over it's large, grey body, otherwise it was cast in darkness. Beckett began drifting upwards, in an almost nonchalant way; _moving? Oh, I'm not moving. Was I moving? Sorry..._

Out of nowhere, the manatee struck again; it flew through the water, and Beckett used as much mental strength as he could to tell himself to go upwards; his body shot towards the surface, the pressure of the water suddenly arcing him to the side. Somehow, he could feel the water more now. It was closing in on him. He wasn't wet, but he could feel it. Heavy. Very heavy. Since he had been in ghost form, he had been light as a feather, it had been easy to swoop through the air. Now, though... it was harder. Like he was being weighed down with something. He was far down...

Desperately trying for the surface again, even kicking his legs uselessly, as if it would help, Beckett rose again; the manatee swept in from his left-hand side, they crashed together and Beckett was once more hit, and sent rolling to the side. The manatee's powerful back tail had smacked him around the jaw, flinging his head upwards—almost transparent blood fell from his mouth, clouding in the water around him, tainted a slight red, invisible to everyone but himself and the manatee.

_Listen. Stop panicking. You're dead—what's the worst that could happen? Hang in there. Get to the _Black Pearl_. Whether this is Calypso or not, something isn't right, and you need to get out._ Thinking reassuring thoughts, he began to swish towards the _Pearl_, water speeding past him on both sides. _How can I feel it?_

He couldn't doubt now that he could feel the water. It was all around him. His movement began slowing down as he came ever so closer to the _Pearl_, his limbs began dragging in the ocean, his ghostly powers seeming to be dimming. He felt alive—but suddenly, this wasn't a good thing. If he felt alive, it meant that he could be feeling very dead, very soon.

The manatee was daunting; it was more then twice the size of him, a bloated creature—he was used to seeing them moving lazily about, slowly swishing through the water, happy as clams to feed on plants. Not people! And especially not dead people that they weren't supposed to be able to see!

Imagine it. Imagine a creature, twice as tall as you, three times as thick, four times as fast. God knows how many times as strong. Stand up, look upwards, imagine your height doubled—how tall that is. How monstrously, hideously huge that is.

Suddenly the creature battered him again, sending him spinning through the ocean, feeling heavier then he had since he had died—feeling almost as heavy as if he were alive. His clothes began to absorb water, and he felt himself becoming heavier and heavier—it was harder and harder to use his mind to get anywhere.

The buffeting of the manatee had pushed him closer to the _Pearl_; in a last-ditch attempt at escape, Beckett thought back to his vague transporting powers—_take me to Elizabeth! Take me to Jack! Take me to Port Royale, or London; take me to Russia, for all I care, get me out of here!_

But it didn't work.

This wasn't possible, was it? There was something unnatural about this...

Squeezing every last drop of strength out of his very being, Beckett used his powers to go towards the _Pearl_; and he was so close now. Never had the dirty underside of a pirate ship seemed to welcoming to him. Beckett wanted to look behind him, he was desperate to see what was happening behind. But at the same time, he didn't want to. He knew that if he saw that manatee behind him, gearing up for another attack, he would just drop dead.

But he couldn't, he was already dead.

But he could.

He didn't really know what was happening—but he remained sharply aware of everything around him, his thoughts reaching out, every sense struggling to detect any hint of evil manatee in the water around him. He was getting closer to the _Pearl_. Closer and closer. The sea became heavier. He became heavier. Any second, he expected the manatee. Any second now.

Perhaps it was gone? Maybe it had given up? Because now he was feet from the hull. Inches. Just a little more...

Beckett smacked into the hull of the _Black Pearl_, headfirst. The barnacles scratched his skin. The hard wood splintered into hands that were groping for a way out of the water. What? He was meant to go through. How could real barnacles cut his spectral skin? What was happening?

Scratching his hands against the hull of the ship, Beckett realized something. He wasn't breathing. He couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth, and closed it again. How odd.

He couldn't breathe.

He was drowning.

----------

The men on board the _Fortune_ ducked behind smartly painted railings as cannon balls from the _Empress_ splintered into strong wood, crashing through all manner of materials. The _Fortune _rocked to the side, and as did the _Empress_; the air was thick with smoke that poured from the cannons as they fired.

Finally, after what seemed like a million years, the vessels parted with each other; each turning and beginning to go back towards one another, none of them willing to back down, each of them ready for battle.

Elizabeth's arms waved as the _Empress_ bobbed back to its upright position, and she regained her balance, and looked on as the two ships turned about, painstakingly slow, and then began moving towards one another again. She smiled a humourless smile, her teeth gritted tightly, as the vessels rounded on each other once more.

"Fire!"

----------

Calypso didn't have a mind at the moment.

She was the sea. She was a manatee. She was the storm. She was wind and rain and typhoon. She was every fish, every crustacean, every marine mammal. She was the sea—and she was angry. All of that time trapped as a human; now she was back. Back, and angry.

In her manatee form, she was still as Beckett floundered for the hull of the _Pearl_, becoming heavier, slower, clumsier, his powers waning away. She concentrated on turning him fully human, the manatee's eyes sparking as she focused energy on turning Beckett into a human once more—so that he could die. He would get no second chance. He did not deserve it. Nobody deserved it. They all deserved death—each of those who had betrayed her...

However, her resolve lessened ever so slightly when Beckett turned in the water to face her. His blue-green eyes looked boldly into hers; fear pushed down deep inside. Breathing was difficult for him—water was beginning to filter into his lungs, but painfully slowly, as his ghostly powers began to leave. He reached into a pocket of his frockcoat, and brought out the green orb.

It was glowing; nearly completely full. All of the good deeds. The goodness in the orb was simply a physical form of the goodness in _him_; it was his conscience, after all. Calypso's maddened state slowly cooled down as she looked at Beckett, struggling in the last moments of his time in this world. Perhaps her anger was misdirected. She had gotten a tad carried away in her righteous rage.

"Calypso," he said in a somewhat raspy, one hand holding the orb tightly, the other at his collarbone, "You're not... being... _fair_..."

He could pretty much guess that the terrible manatee was Calypso, now. His powers were vanishing, his sort of death-life fading away; and it was true! At the risk of sounding like a four-year-old, _it wasn't fair_! He looked on at her, keeping the panic at bay, wondering when the feeling of water rushing into him would come. Wondering if it would come. He looked down at the orb. It was very nearly full. _Maybe they have discount offers on getting into Paradise now?_

When he looked up, the manatee was heading straight for him—its head pummelled into his stomach, going at least twenty miles an hour.

----------

Pain exploded in every part of Beckett's brain; suddenly, he landed on his back on hard wood. Taking a deep breath, he sat up—making ever tendon in his body scream. He glanced around himself, through the gloom. Where was he? What the bloody hell had just happened? He was in the brig of the _Black Pearl_. The manatee—Calypso—had pushed him through the hull.

He drifted upwards into the air, still in his sitting position, and he realized that his ghostlike powers were back. He put his hand through a crate just to make sure... and it worked. Closing his eyes, he seated himself on the floor once more.

His loud breathing filled the air. It was eerily silent down here, compared to the mad rush of adrenaline and near-death experiences that had been the water. Waves buffeting him from all sides, a crazed manatee mauling him to death, his breaths becoming short, and the panic. Stark, white panic that had flooded him, even though he'd buried it as deep as possible inside his stomach, it had still been there. The sort of panic that no other panic could match. At least triple the amount of panic of the realization that something you desperately needed was nowhere in sight, no matter where you looked, and you needed it _now_.

In the complete and utter deadness of the air of the brig, Beckett's breathing slowed, and the shaking stopped, and eventually he was smoothing down his waistcoat and fixing his wig straight and wondering at the fact that he was still dry. Then he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

Right. Time to get on with things, then.

But Calypso's message had been clear; _you're not welcome in the ocean. I don't like you. And you are not forgiven._ He should have guessed, really. She hated him. She should join the queue.

----------

Once more, the cannon balls skirted past each other, soaring through open air before smashing everything in their path; wood, metal, material, flesh and bone. The _Fortune_ tilted to the side with the force of the blow—and so did the _Empress_, her magnificent red sails arching in the wind.

Elizabeth had one booted foot on the edge of the _Empress_, and as it keeled backwards, and that was not the problem. It was as it shot back forwards again that things went wrong; as the _Empress_ crashed upright once more, Elizabeth was thrown forwards too, and sent plummeting down towards the ocean in between the _Empress _and the _Fortune_.

"Lizzy?" Jack popped his head out from around barrel, and realized that she was gone. Not again—how many times would he have to save her from drowning? He began running across the deck, throwing all caution out of his gait, but he never got the chance to dive into the water.

* * *

**NB: **Heh, drama. I wasn't sure about this chapter. If it was too 'OMG!!!' ...if you know what I mean.

Sorry for the HUUUGE gaps between updates. It's so hard to find the time, these days! XD


	9. Day of Judgement

NINE: DAY OF JUDGEMENT 

Elizabeth shrieked as she was propelled overboard—it was involuntary, and extremely unkingly, but she couldn't help it. The water was rushing up to meet her, when suddenly she felt a strong grip in her hair and her shoulder and she swung to a halt, though she shouted in pain at having her hair yanked.

She looked up at her rescuer.

"Did you just save my life?" she asked Beckett, who had let go of her hair and now had her supported by one wrist and one side, his see-through hands clamped tightly around her, stopping her from plummeting down and meeting an untimely death.

"Just doing my job," Beckett muttered with obvious distaste, but also a touch of uncertainty, and they were both engulfed in green sparks.

----------

The reason that saving Elizabeth's life gained Beckett so many green sparks was this; because he _hadn't had to_. He had only just arrived. It wouldn't have been his fault. But he did; he saw her, and he was so used to being a do-gooder now that he quickly swooped downwards, grabbed her hair and yanked her upwards. A few people were staring at the floating Elizabeth Swann in a cross between horror, awe and wishing that cameras had been invented.

"I think I just made you from a King to a minor deity," Beckett said into her ear, as he gently floated her towards the _Empress_. Softly, as if he were holding a fairly breakable doll, he placed her on the deck. He had to be careful with all of the new, ghostly strength that he possessed. She landed with her hands on her hips.

"What are you all staring at?" she demanded loudly, "Turn about, and fire again!" But the _Fortune_ had other ideas. Other ideas that were very fast, and going in the opposite direction to where they were. _She's a magic woman! She's possessed by the devil! She's an angel! Who cares what she is—run!_

"King Swann," her second-in-command, Tai Huang, lowered himself down on one knee in a cross between wonder and fear, "How did you do that?"

"Get up, Tai," Elizabeth smiled at her first mate, "How I did it is neither here nor there. Carry on." She looked on as the _Fortune_ made to make a hasty getaway. She grinned broadly—her reputation could only soar upwards from here. As Pirate King, she _wanted_ people to fear her; and she would have her wish.

"That was a good 'un," Jack said, arriving next to Elizabeth. Beckett floated in the air at her side, his arms folded, looking at the list. His expression was unfathomable; he seemed to be unable to find words.

"Thanks, Beckett," Elizabeth said haughtily, "I owe you." She looked towards him. He still hadn't looked away from the list. "Beckett?" He looked up at last, and turned the list around. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow—every name was crossed off. All fourteen feet and three inches of names had been neatly crossed off.

"What I just did was so good, it demolished all of the remaining names," Beckett suddenly allowed his lips to curve into a smile, "I did it. Ha."

"Let's see the little crystal ball, then," Jack said, leaning forwards. Beckett brought it out of an inside pocket, and held it out—it was glowing a bright, bright green, colour flashing from it, and the three were bathed in it's glow. Beckett seemed proud.

"Wait," Elizabeth put a finger to the cool glass, "There's something in there."

"What do you mean?" Beckett brought the glass to his face—the sun was setting. It was the end of day four, now. He had about twenty-four hours left in the living world, and then he would go forever. Then he saw it too—a small grain of dullness in the bright green sparklies. "But... but I..." he looked down the list with a small frown, letting it drop to the floor, and began going through names.

"You... you were quite the sinner, weren't you?" Elizabeth asked, astounded at all of the names. "How on _earth_ did you manage to get all of these names crossed off?"

"Through cunning, bravery, and overall goodness," Beckett murmured, moving the list upwards until he reached the very end; where he found that it was curled over slightly. With a sense of foreboding, he opened it—and closed his eyes, his pride at succeeding his task immediately crushed. "Damn."

_Will Turner. _

"Did you ever commit a sin against dear William?" Jack asked, cocking his head, "I know what you did to me, and Elizabeth—but Will? Weren't you working together, at some point? Did you ever betray him?"

"I insulted him," Beckett said softly, "When I saw him on the _Dutchman_, I insulted him." _Spite is a sin in my eyes._ Calypso had said it herself. Beckett furrowed his brow—_oh, bollocks..._

"What, and because of that, you're going to be thrown into the Locker for eternal torture and punishment?" Elizabeth asked. Beckett nodded, looking slightly paler then usual—and Elizabeth hadn't thought that as possible.

"I can't repay my sin to him, can I? He's in the land of the dead. A place I can't go... despite being dead," he smiled humourlessly, "Ironic."

"Perhaps just doing something good will cross it off?" Elizabeth asked, hopefully.

"I don't think so," Beckett sighed.

"Can you do a good deed when you get over there?" Elizabeth asked.

"Like what? I can't leave the rowing boats," Beckett muttered. Elizabeth felt bad for him, then—which was really rather unexpected. She supposed that he _had_ saved her life, so she had a right to feel bad for him. And it had also been slightly her fault that he was dead, she supposed. And it was oddly endearing, watching Beckett trying to be good. It was like watching a dog trying to operate a pogo stick. He didn't quite know how it worked, but was determined for it to work anyway.

"Whew... conversation stopper," Jack said, in his usual tactless manner. Beckett pursed his lips.

"Calypso knew that," he said, "She folded the bottom of the list on purpose. She _wanted_ me to fail. Hence the attack." Jack looked at Beckett, who was looking slightly bedraggled, and had several cuts on his face and hands.

"I wasn't going to ask," Jack said, "But what the bloody hell happened to you?"

"Believe it or not, I was attacked by a manatee," Beckett said warily. Elizabeth held back a laugh, but then realized the seriousness of the situation. "Calypso took on the form of a monstrous manatee and tried to maul me. She nearly succeeded too," Beckett massaged a temple, "She changed her mind at the last moment and decided to butt me in the stomach so hard that I think several of my major organs are now reminiscent of Danish pastry... but I digress," he put a hand to his stomach, wincing, as Jack laughed, before receiving a glare from Elizabeth.

Oh, so she was on _Beckett's_ side now? Psht. Save a woman's life, and she instantly betrays an old friend for them. How easily swayed they were.

"And it was all for nothing, anyway," Beckett concluded, looking down to the water, and then standing straight. Self-pity was not something Beckett enjoyed, and he was not planning on pitying himself any longer. "So what can I do now?"

"Stay 'ere, I guess," Jack said, grinning.

"Hmm," Beckett looked down at the deck of the _Empress_, "Well, I suppose some good might as well come of this. I know where the _Black Pearl_ is; it is indeed near Tortuga, in the crossing between there and Cuba." Jack grinned at Beckett.

"Hey, you did the right thing for once!" Jack put a hand on Beckett's shoulder, "How does it feel?" Beckett tilted his head.

"Disconcerting, and mildly unsatisfying," Beckett said, listlessly.

The three—man, woman and ghost—stood together on the deck of the _Empress_ as the sun set on day four. There was nothing else that they could do.

----------

Beckett spent most of day five drifting around, being occasionally helpful, but much preferring to cause trouble instead. He felt that he deserved it—and he didn't lose any sparklies over harmless little pranks. Not that they mattered any more. Nothing mattered. After this one day, a long, long eternity of torture awaited him. He hated to think what would be done to him for his sins—despite the fact that he had tried his hardest to repay them.

"Hey, mate, you could be anywhere today; havin' fun in Tortuga, visiting old buddies," Jack raised an eyebrow, "What're you doing 'ere?"

"You could use today to say goodbye to your family and suchlike," Elizabeth said, in a gentler voice. Beckett floated next to them, his back ramrod straight, his hands folded across his chest—his eyes were on the horizon, and his expression was completely unreadable.

"There's no point," Beckett said softly, "I don't _have_ any 'buddies', the only family I have left is my mother, and I think it would break her to see me again. And I'm not even going to respond to Jack's first suggestion."

"Well, you just did," Jack said, with the air of a small child who had just beaten an adult at their own game. Beckett shot Jack that despairing look of an adult being 'beaten' by a child who did not understand the rules. Elizabeth sighed, seeming to be the part of Jack's controlling parent in all of this.

"You know, Beckett," Elizabeth said, "If I'd known that it would turn out like this, I never would have blown you up."

"Thank you for the sentiments," Beckett said dryly, "Not only is it hugely helpful, but it makes me feel so much better, too." Elizabeth shook her head and sighed, looking out at the horizon. She knew what had Beckett down.

The sun was beginning it's slow, yet steady decent towards.

----------

That evening, Jack, Elizabeth and the ethereal form of Beckett all sat on the side of the _Empress_, watching the sun setting. Beckett cast no shadow; the light went right through him.

"Well, Beckett," Jack said; one of his legs was dangling down towards the ocean, the other drawn up. He rested an arm on the drawn-up leg's knee. "Here's to happily ever after."

"Hardly," Beckett said. He had turned very monosyllabic recently, though he did not let his composure slide away. He was going to go down bravely; like he did when he died. Not flinching, not screaming, not crying like a girl. He had to accept it—he'd failed. But he'd nearly succeeded. That should have given him some level of satisfaction, but somehow, it didn't.

"Beckett," Elizabeth put a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his head towards her, "I hope Calypso forgives you."

"It didn't look like it, from what I saw," Beckett said, looking back at the sunset; sliver by sliver, it sank further beneath the shoreline. _Perhaps if I chase after it, the sun will never set. Perhaps if I carry on staying in the daytime, I'll never have to die._ But somehow, he didn't believe it possible. And he didn't feel like moving, now.

"You never know," Jack shrugged airily, "She was nice enough."

"Oh, yes," Beckett rolled his eyes, "Was this before or after she turned into a giant manatee, crushed your dinghy and tried to kill you? Sorry, I can't quite remember."

"We've had some good times," Elizabeth said.

"Of course," Beckett replied, "Like that time you snuck into my manor in the middle of the night and threatened me with a flintlock pistol. Oh, what jollies. We really must do that again some time." It seemed that his sarcasm gland had gone into overdrive at the thought of his imminent death.

The sun was over halfway gone.

"Bye, then, chum," Jack patted Beckett on the back, briefly, "You've had a nice life. It's been a good run."

"And, can you..." Elizabeth swallowed, "Can you tell Will that I love him?" Beckett turned to look at her. His expression was one of complete shock. Elizabeth wondered if he had said something wrong, when Beckett suddenly smiled.

"I've just had an idea..." he murmured, softly.

"Beckett?" Elizabeth shook her head, and blinked, "Cutler?"

He simply smiled enigmatically and—as the sun sank from view—he faded away, until there was nothing left. Nothing at all.

"He's dead," Jack said, "Dead at last, eh?" But he tipped his hat in respect anyhow. Elizabeth and Jack both turned to watch the sun sinking, each thinking their own thoughts; which, somehow, were linked. It's strange, how that happens. As the sun vanished and they were cast into darkness, Elizabeth thought about Will, Davy Jones, Sao Feng, James Norrington, and of course Cutler Beckett; everyone they had shared their adventures with.

"And then there were two," she whispered.

----------

So. He recognized this particular scene. Beckett looked around himself—rowing boat, mist, ocean, and—oh yes, there was the _Flying Dutchman_. Clambering to his feet on the rowing boat, somewhat unsteadily, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out.

"William Turner!" his shout echoed for a few minutes, and then Will suddenly arrived at the edge of the _Dutchman_, looking confused once more. Then he spotted Beckett, and a deep frown spread over his face.

"What? Beckett again!" Will blew a breath out, "I'm not talking to you." He turned away, and began to walk. Beckett's eyes widened.

"William Turner! Will! Will Turner! _Wait_!" he stepped forwards, making his boat rock dangerously, "_Will_!" He had to talk to him. He had to, otherwise everything was lost. Beckett cupped his hands around his mouth. "_Turner_! Will, Elizabeth told me—she told me to tell you," Beckett was almost nervous about saying the words now. What if they didn't work? Will turned to face him, tilting his head. "She said that she loved you!" he blurted, in a most un-Beckettlike manner. Will spun around to face him.

"Really?" Will breathed, with a small smile. And on that breath drifted a single, green spark. Languidly, it travelled through the air, bobbing on invisible air currents and spinning slowly until it reached Beckett. There, it burst into him—and caused what looked to Will like a muted explosion of green, sparkly things. They were everywhere; flying around the rocking boat, swishing through it, the ocean, the air, and in the middle of it all was the brightest ball of greenness that Will had ever seen.

Beckett looked up from the centre of the bright green glow.

"You just saved me," Beckett looked up at him, "I think I love you." With that, Beckett faded away, along with the greenness. All that was left was a single rowing boat, drifting alone in the dark water, spinning through the mists. And fairly worried Will Turner.

----------

"Listen, love, I have permission to be in 'ere." Beckett heard a familiar voice, and turned to look at the giant gates into the afterlife with an eyebrow raised. So it had happened at long, long last.

Beckett had been dead for about six years, now. And the afterlife was... well, it was nice. Peaceful, at any rate. He'd met some old faces. Norrington—well, he'd expected him to be here. Norrington had seemed rather afraid of him, and he quickly evaporated. He'd seen his father, too. Told him 'hello'. He'd decided, after a while, to take up residence near the very entrance to the afterlife; so that he could smirk at all of the nervous newcomers. What? _Somebody_ had to do it.

"No, really! I'm a good man, really. Honest, I swear." Beckett, one eyebrow still arched, took a sip from a cup of tea. A perfect cup of tea—and why wouldn't it be? He'd made it himself. He looked down at the cloudy ground, still shamelessly eavesdropping. He heard a murmur in reply to Jack; a voice he recognized as Calypso.

"So, how hard could it be?" he heard Jack say. Beckett heard the dark sound of Calypso's voice once more, and then there was a pause. Suddenly, "_What_?! That list's at least _thirteen feet long_!" He was nearly right.

Beckett smiled.

"So, uh, happy, ay? Sure, sure I can do it. Just you wait." Beckett moved his teacup towards his lips once more, ready to take another sip, when he heard Jack Sparrow continue, "But, eh—can I have some 'elp? Old friend of mine. Knows all about it. Partners in crime, you know?"

Beckett's smile slid off of his face.

Oh, God no.

THE END.

* * *

**NB:** And so, our story concludes. Thanks to all of my darling readers--I love you all! This story's been extremely fun to write. You didn't think I'd let Beckett go to hell, did you?

Uh, well, he does deserve it. But... meh!


End file.
